Rogue President. D.K. Wilde

she replied abruptly, looking him up and down standing before her in his tattered jungle camouflage greens. “We can’t help you anymore,” and returned her attention to her patient.

      Wade saw Prue, Nenwon and the two French nurses watching. He slung the rifle over his back, checked his ammo, strapped on his trusty KaBar knife, hung the water bottle off his waist, reapplied cam cream and dragged anything else of importance from his webbing.

      “I’d bury any sign of us ever being here, if I was you,” said Wade leaving the ward and not looking back.

      The hospital was situated on the outskirts of the small riverside village. Bordered on two sides by thick jungle Wade had travelled a mere eighty metres when the trees and vines gobbled him up and no further signs of human occupation existed. Very adept at travel in the jungle he was surprised how quickly his skills had returned but more surprised when he realized he was being followed. With his knife tucked up into his left hand he double timed. Ducking under low branches, stepping around large elephant ear ferns, sliding over huge tree roots he keep up the frenetic pace for ten minutes; the follower still there. The four trees, directly ahead, were like stands supporting a large cargo net. Wade slid around the base and darted under the vines.

      He heard the movement. It was extremely light footed and almost floating. The charcoal black skinned boy slithered around the tree trunk like a snake, as Wade grabbed him from behind and thrust the knife under his throat.

      The boy was small, he had a shaved head and his back was severely scarred from whipping. Like lightning he tried to escape Wade’s clutches but Wade’s strength and speed held him down. With his hand around the boy’s skinny little neck; he turned him.

      His eyes were like fire. His two front teeth were missing. His jaw had been broken and had never mended properly. Wade saw the roughly burned tattoo scars, up his arms, that the rebels inflict to remind the locals of their allegiance.

      Fluent in French Wade asked, “Why are you following me?”

      The boy’s eyes grew wider as he stared at the knife. The knife scared him. Wade returned it to his scabbard. With his hand now around the boy’s tiny bicep Wade shook him, to look up, and asked him again.

      “Goboto,” he replied.

      “That’s your name,” asked Wade.

      He nodded in agreeance as he looked around.

      Wade could see the fear in his eyes that was prevalent amongst the locals. His arms shuddered like an electric shock had been sent from his shoulder to his hands. He saw the busted and misaligned fingers that had been a victim of further rebel brutality. Having seen the best and worst of mankind Wade had developed an instinct to see through the shield that victims would adopt. He could sense that Goboto wanted to help and also wanted his help.

      “You very good to your friend. Help him. Now find wop wop. Yes?”

      “Friend? … when? … and what do you know about a helicopter?

      Pausing and continually looking around. “I saw you just before you leave jungle. Villagers take you to Doctor Prue and then you help friend on plane.”

      “Go on,” prodded Wade holding his arm tighter. “What about the helicopter?”

      “It down river, near Guagoma. Shot down, sammy.”

      “Sammy? What do you mean sammy?”

      “Rocket from ground,” replied Goboto still nervously swiveling his head.

      Like a bolt of lightning had struck Wade said to himself, “I see a SAM.” He released his grip, looked into Goboto’s eyes and said, “Once again. Why are you following me?”

      Now free of Wade’s grip Goboto became even more nervous as he pivoted his entire body.

      “Hey! Nobody’s following us. Okay?”

      Stopping his manic movements, he looked as Wade gestured to him to sit. With his arms across his chest and hands wrapped around his scrawny little biceps he slowly started to control his breathing.

      “I help friends and they get killed by ‘Vulture. ‘Vulture’ kill all family. You help friend. You good man. I help you. I show you where crash.”

      Nodding, Wade stood. Nothing further was said and they headed back towards the river.

      A super fit and skilled Special Forces jungle operator Wade was in the world’s top echelon but he had to work hard to keep up with Goboto who darted through the thick undergrowth. The sun had been up for an hour and the temperature was already in the high thirties. The humidity was unbearable and the mosquitos were in plague proportion.

      Wade was impressed with Goboto’s climbing skills. Every time they came to something blocking their path Wade would go under while Goboto would use his hands and feet, similar to a monkey, and scamper over the top.

      The birdlife sounds changed, they were once again back at the river. The Moa River; dividing Guinea to the west and Sierra Leone to the east. The large palm trees curved out over the water as they fought for sunlight in the upper canopy and the head high grasses appeared to come out of the water. Wary that sometimes you could part the grass and fall up to two metres in to the fast flowing waters the duo cautiously approached.

      The darkness of the jungle floor was shattered as they opened the grass on to the two hundred metre wide river.

      “No go river. Hippo and snake. Need boat,” said Goboto, rocking his head from side to side trying to get Wade to understand how serious he was.

      “We’ll follow the river downstream until we find a boat. Otherwise we walk,” said Wade, offering Goboto a drink from his water bottle.

      Travelling close to the water’s edge added the difficulty of denser grasses, the possibility of falling in to the river and being spotted by the locals that went about their business on the river.

      Approaching 1600 hours the duo were exhausted. The heavens opened and the torrent of rain crashed down on them. The wildlife had moved into the trees, the river was deserted and the locals had sought shelter in their huts. Wade and Goboto’s movement had changed from walking to slipping and sliding. They were standing beside each other as they stepped onto the pile of fallen gigantic fern fronds. The water had undermined the ground and they crashed down the side of the embankment into the waist deep mud. A torrent of water raced down the eroded gulley continually pummeling them. The water was as heavy as a waterfall and the mud sucked harder and harder the more Wade struggled. Freeing his knife from the scabbard he reached as high as he could and plunged the knife into the tree trunk. With his left arm wrapped around Goboto’s waist he pulled and pulled. The muscles in his right arm were like a slow moving crane as the one arm chin up slowly brought them out of the mud. Free of the mud and waterfall they collapsed on to solid ground.

      Getting to his knees Wade noticed Goboto wasn’t moving. Turning him over, he was unconscious. The force of the water had been too much for his slight frame. Being lighter than the packs he had lugged around the world, Wade slung him over his left shoulder and started back along the rivers edge.

      The intensity of the rain had increased. Ten minutes had passed. Ahead the nine huts faced each other as they sat precariously balanced on the small outcrop at the rivers bend. Plumes of smoke wafted from the open windows. Evening meals being prepared with the smell of cooked fish and wild jungle vegetables. A small child stood in the open doorway of the closest hut, watching the strange duo pass. Two upturned wide beamed fishing boats came in to view, perched high up on the muddy bank. With single slats of timber for seating and poles for propulsion Wade lay Goboto in the bow, untied the securing vines and slid the vessel out into the treacherous waters.

      The fragile boats were not made for fast travel or long distances and the wide beam caught tremendous amounts of rain in the heavy deluge. Already quarter full Wade struggled to keep balance as he stood with his legs spread across the rear seat. The boat had been forced to the middle. The river was like a washing machine, churning and turning on its self. With only three metres of visibility