The American Mission (29 page)

“I would be a master of my domain,” Manamakimba replied, “rather than a servant in yours. Give me land in the valley on which to build our homes and I will lend you the strong right arm of the Hammer of God to defend what is ours.”

Marie did not approve of his choice of pronouns or his evident reluctance to use her title. She could only hope that the gap between her demands and Manamakimba's desires could be bridged.

“I would no sooner cede my land to the Hammer of God than I would to Consolidated Mining. The land of my ancestors is not for sale or exchange. There can be only one Principal Chief in Busu-Mouli. That role cannot be shared and I will not midwife the birth of a two-headed beast. My terms are nonnegotiable. If you cannot accept them, we will take our chances with the
genocidaires
and their mercenary allies.”

Manamakimba's face was impassive as he considered what she had said.

“And what is my place in this order?” he asked. “Am I to be a goatherd or a laborer in your mines?”

“Neither,” Marie answered. “You are a leader of rare gifts. You will remain a leader should you choose to join us. This does not mean that you will not labor. In Busu-Mouli, we all work for our food and our freedom. There will be a place of honor for you at my table of counselors. But there can be no confusion over who is the Principal Chief. Now do we have a deal?”

There was a tense silence and Marie was all but certain that Manamakimba was going to reject her conditions. Her fallback plan was to negotiate the purchase of one or more of the Hammer of God's surface-to-air missiles. She was about to put this proposal to Manamakimba
when the paramilitary commander laughed. His laughter was warm and inclusive rather than derisive.

“I can see that you are your father's daughter . . . and a chief in your own right. Very well. I agree to your terms . . . my chief.” And Joseph Manamakimba, the most feared warlord in eastern Congo, even if mistakenly so, got on one knee and bowed before Marie Tsiolo, Principal Chief of Busu-Mouli. He took her hand and pressed it to his forehead. And just like that, Marie Tsiolo had an army.

•   •   •

M
arie was anxious to get back, but the sun was setting. So they decided to spend the night and leave as soon as there was enough light to navigate by. The Congo is the deepest river in the world. At certain points, it is well over two hundred feet to the bottom of the river. In other places, however, shifting sand bars make night navigation treacherous, especially on unfamiliar stretches of the river. If they ran aground, they might have to unload the boats in order to free themselves. That could take half a day or more and they could not take that risk.

That evening, Manamakimba gathered his clan. Altogether, there were no more than eighty of them, including fighters with their odd assortment of neckwear, the camp followers, and a handful of men and boys too old or too young or too injured to be of much use. It was a small army, but they were battle-hardened and confident, and they trusted their leaders. This was a rare and precious thing, and it made them formidable. When Manamakimba told them of their new home, there were cries of joy from the rank and file. Not a few grown men wept. One by one, the men and boys of the Hammer of God knelt before Marie Tsiolo and pledged their fealty. One more battle, they hoped, and they could finally lay down their guns.

Inevitably, there was a feast: antelope roasted over piles of glowing coals, and potatoes wrapped in banana leaves and baked in the ash at
the edge of the fires. It was a chief's job to provide for his people, and from the
Nkongolo
's stores Marie contributed salted fish, peanuts, and—most important—palm wine. Manamakimba was a teetotaler, but most of his lieutenants took the opportunity to get rip-roaring drunk. A pair of drums was retrieved from somewhere in the
Nkongolo
's hold and the boat crew from Busu-Mouli danced with the Hammer of God guerillas well into the night.

At about two in the morning, Alex and Marie took a couple of mosquito nets from the boat and hung them up in one of the huts so they would not have to sleep in the
Nkongolo
's dirty hold. There were plenty of empty buildings. Even so, and without discussing it at all, they shared a hut, curled up on the floor in thin blankets while the party continued. The rhythmic noise of the drums was oddly soothing and they soon dropped off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

•   •   •

W
hen they woke, the sky was already gray and Marie set about supervising the loading of her modest flotilla. Most of the rifles and small-caliber machine guns were stowed on the
Nkongolo
. A few motorbikes and ATVs were driven onto one of the barges and parked alongside three plastic boxes the size of footlockers with heavy latches. These were the shoulder-fired Igla
missiles that Marie hoped would save her village.

Standing on one of the barges, Marie watched as Alex and a young Hammer of God guerilla mounted a .30-caliber machine gun on the
Nkongolo
's rear gunwale, transforming the vessel—as far as she was concerned—from a humble fishing boat into the flagship of the Busu-Mouli navy. Thick planks served as a loading ramp for the barge. When he had finished mounting the gun, Alex hopped off the
Nkongolo
and walked over to the barge with an easy and confident stride. She liked the way he walked. The American paused at the bottom of the ramp and gave her a lighthearted salute.

“Permission to come aboard, Admiral?” he asked.

“Another job title? I'm going to have to update my résumé.”

The trip back was uneventful. Even fully loaded, they made considerably better time traveling downstream. It was midafternoon when they reached Busu-Mouli, and Manamakimba wasted little time in getting to work. They had less than thirty-six hours to prepare for the attack. The efficiency and discipline of the Hammer of God was impressive. At first, Jean-Baptiste betrayed a degree of resentment at having been displaced as the head of Busu-Mouli's armed forces, such as they had been. Even Jean-Baptiste had to admit, however, that the newcomers brought weaponry and practical battle experience that he could not hope to match. Soon enough, he had installed himself as Manamakimba's chief lieutenant and the guerilla leader was politically savvy enough to let him do so. Together they directed the farmers and villagers as they dug trenches and fortified firing positions.

The Igla missiles were most effective if they had some elevation. The Hammer ordered his soldiers to build platforms on the roofs of three houses in different parts of the village and posted two-man teams at each site. One man served as the spotter and loader. The second was the shooter. All three teams knew their business. They had three tubes with two spare rounds for each. The equipment was elderly, however, and the soldiers had neither the training nor the tools to do even routine maintenance. Some of the rounds could turn out to be duds. It was even possible that they were all too old or worn-out to fire. In which case, Manamakimba observed philosophically, they were all likely to die.

•   •   •

B
y the night of the twenty-third, they had done everything possible to prepare. Marie waited behind the sandbag revetment near the well in the village square where Manamakimba had set up their command post. She had an AK-47 slung over her back. Most of the women and all of the children had taken shelter in the mine. A handful of
women had taken up rifles and were prepared to fight for their village. As Chief, Marie would lead from the front, but Manamakimba had insisted that she accept a “Royal Guard” charged with her personal protection. One Hammer of God soldier and one village guardsman stood just behind her, pledged to protect their chief with their lives. Manamakimba had warned them that if Marie was hurt in the fighting, they had better be dead.

Manamakimba asked Alex to take responsibility for battlefield intelligence. The Night Hawk scope offered another capability that the attackers did not expect. He posted Alex on one of the rooftop firing platforms, from which he had a commanding view of the tree line and clear sight lines for spotting the South African helicopters. He could communicate with Manamakimba via SMS text messages sent over the sat phones.

The sky was cloudless and the half-moon cast a dim light on the village. Marie was pleased. It was enough light to aim by. A little after eleven, Manamakimba's phone beeped and he showed Marie the terse message from Alex. “They're here. Estimate one hundred men advancing from tree line to the north.”

“Let them come,” Chief Tsiolo replied.

•   •   •

T
he
genocidaires
moved quickly toward the village, understanding from both instinct and experience that they were terribly exposed in the open field. The village promised shelter and safety. It was an illusion. When the lead elements of the
genocidaires
had nearly reached the village square, a white flare arced up from the command post, illuminating the invaders and signaling the defenders to open fire. The first fusillade from the entrenched positions was devastating. Hammer of God soldiers and village guardsmen fired from the rooftops and from shallow foxholes reinforced with sandbags. A score of
genocidaires
fell in the first few seconds. The others sought whatever cover they could
and returned fire. The invaders still outnumbered the villagers, but the momentum was now with the defenders. For just a moment it seemed as if the
genocidaires
would break and retreat back into the jungle, but the Rwandans dug in and the fight became a brutal slog.

Lacking any meaningful communication capacity, Manamakimba used the younger men and older boys as runners to carry messages to different groups of fighters and to bring back reports from the front lines. The picture was mixed. In places, they were driving the Rwandans back. In other parts of the fight, however, Hammer of God and village guard forces were pinned down by heavy fire.

Fifteen minutes after the shooting began, a Busu-Mouli teenager, bloody and terrified, raced up to the command post from the northern skirmish line. He was breathing so hard from both exertion and panic that he could hardly speak. Marie remembered holding him in her arms on the day he was born.

“Calm down,” she said gently. “Take a breath. Then give me your report.”

“It's Katanga,” the boy said, when he could speak. “He's been shot. Jean-Baptiste is trying to defend the position, but there are too many of the enemy. He can't hold on. He sent me back for reinforcements.”

Marie looked at Manamakimba, who spread his hands helplessly.

“There is no one left to send,” he said.

“Yes, there is.” She turned to the soldiers who had been sworn to defend her. “Boys. You're with me.”

“Dulline,” Marie said to the teenage runner, “you must lead us to them.”

The boy nodded.

She did her best to ignore the icy ball of fear that seemed to have settled in her stomach. Marie was suddenly certain that she was leading these men to their deaths. She feared this responsibility, as she feared being measured against her father and found wanting. She shouldered her rifle.

Young Dulline led Marie's small unit back the way he had come, using the narrow alleyways of the village to keep as much cover between them and the shooting as possible. Abruptly, the buildings ended and Marie understood the challenge they faced. A .30-caliber machine gun was keeping the defenders pinned down. The villagers had just enough cover to keep the machine gun from tearing them to shreds, but they could not fire back effectively, and disciplined
genocidaire
fire teams were advancing under cover. The gun had to go. Marie pointed at her personal guard with the middle and index fingers of her right hand. Then she pointed at the machine gun.

“We are going to kill those bloody bastards,” she said. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, Chief,” the two responded.

She turned to the Hammer of God soldier, an older man named François with a four-inch scar across one cheek. He was an experienced jungle fighter. Marie hoped he was a crafty one as well. “What do you suggest?”

“Flank the position and kill the gunner and the loader. Then pin the rest between us and our men on the rise. Keep low.”

Without further discussion, Marie started crawling forward to a spot where they could bring flanking fire onto the machine gun. François and his Busu-Mouli comrade were right behind her. Dulline was not far behind them. She was proud of the boy. Fifty meters of crawling gave them the angle they needed. On Marie's signal, all four opened fire on the machine gun. The shooter and the loader collapsed in a twitching heap.

“Katanga, Jean-Baptiste!” Marie shouted over the din. “We've taken out the gun. Help us with the others.”

Jean-Baptiste and two unwounded defenders popped up far enough to begin shooting at the Rwandan fire teams. Marie and her small team joined in, catching the invaders in the cross fire. They advanced toward Jean-Baptiste's position.

•   •   •

T
hrough the eerie green world of the Night Hawk scope, Alex watched Marie leave the relative safety of the command post and head toward the thick of the fighting. At high magnification, her face was clearly visible. A small knot of village guardsmen was defending a rise in the field that separated the village from the jungle. Rwandan
genocidaires
had cut off their line of retreat, and they were trapped there.

Alex saw Marie take out the machine gun and begin the advance toward the small ridge. The action was some four hundred meters away, but the starlight scope brought it all up close and personal. Then Alex saw something that made his blood freeze. Five heavily armed Rwandans emerged from the trees behind Marie and dropped to the ground. Alex could see them moving on their bellies through the tall grass.

“Marie!” he shouted uselessly. They were too far away and there was too much noise from the ongoing fighting for her to be able to hear. Without further thought, Alex jumped off the roof, gasping at the pain that ran up his injured side. Abandoning any attempt at stealth, he ran toward Marie, shouting her name. From ground level he could not see either Marie and her team or the Rwandans creeping up stealthily behind them. He could only imagine the worst as he weaved his way between buildings and concentrated on keeping his footing as he raced over the rocky ground. His rib cage screamed at him as he pushed himself to run faster.