Джон Гришэм - Sooley

At noon, Monday, July 20, the players met in the hotel conference room for their scheduled calls home. Using Ecko’s cell phone, Samuel punched in the number of the lieutenant’s satellite phone. There was no answer. He tried again, and half an hour later tried once more. This was troubling but not terribly disturbing. All communications in South Sudan were unreliable.

Game Six: South Sudan versus Newton Academy

The Nukes, as they were known, had become one of the more noted basketball factories in the country. Nestled in the Smoky Mountains north of Knoxville, the school had only a hundred students, half boys, half girls, all serious and talented basketball players. Tuition was low, scholarships abundant, academics touted but not stressed, and admission was impossible unless a player had the skills to play in college. Virtually every student signed a scholarship at some level. Few public schools would play them, and so they feasted on other like-minded sports schools and travel programs, like Houston Gold, a team their U18 boys had beaten a month earlier in another showcase.

With redemption on their minds, not to mention a painful trip home that would be far earlier than expected, Ecko’s players took the floor with determination and resolve. In the first period, Dak Marial lived up to his hype and dominated the inside on both ends. He scored 12, blocked three shots, and led his team to a 10-point lead. Samuel played the second period, and though he didn’t score, he blocked two shots, stole the ball twice, and had two perfect assists to Abraham Bol deep in the corner. Ecko got every player in the game, but with five minutes to go, and their lead down to 7, he reinserted Dak, who, along with Quinton Majok, shut down the Nukes’ inside game. Samuel reentered with three minutes to go and promptly drained a long three that put them up by 15.

The thumping did wonders for the team’s morale and they hung around UCF to watch Houston Gold eke out a two-point win over Croatia. Gold was still undefeated and clinched the first seed. Croatia and Brazil were both 4–2, as was South Sudan. The U.K., their last opponent, was also 4–2. The winner of that game would likely advance to the national tournament in St. Louis.

During the game, as Ecko and Frankie lounged in the coaches’ suite and worked the scouts, a call came from a sat phone in Rumbek. It was the lieutenant, and he had some dreadful news. Ecko stepped outside the suite and walked to the upper deck.

The city of Rumbek was under siege by rebel forces and many of the surrounding villages, especially Lotta, had been destroyed. The lieutenant called it a massacre. An army helicopter had flown over Lotta and reported that the destruction was thorough, devastating, and the fires were still smoldering. Hundreds of dead bodies, mostly men and boys, were lying in the streets and on the roads. Government forces had been unable to retake the area and were fighting for their lives. The situation was dire and reinforcements were on the way. It was impossible to identify bodies at the time, but the casualties were staggering. Indeed, identification might never be possible. Lotta was deserted but for the guerrillas, who were mopping up. The helicopter was hit by fire and barely escaped.

After the call, Ecko sat for a long time far up in the cheap seats and watched his players in the reserved seats. They were laughing, bantering, savoring their win and itching for one last victory to send them on. He watched Samuel, and his heart ached. Almost twenty years as a coach, and Ecko had never been faced with such an awful task. He reluctantly returned to the suite, pulled out Frankie, and delivered the news. They discussed what to do next, but neither had a clue. No one was equipped for such a nightmare.

They walked back to the suite and Frankie opened his laptop and began searching for headline news from South Sudan, but there was nothing. Evidently, massacres were so common that another one was not newsworthy. He found a site from Juba but the reports were only of a rebel attack on the city of Rumbek.

They waited until after dinner at the hotel, and when the team retired to a large conference room to watch soccer reruns on ESPN, Ecko pulled Samuel aside and said, “Follow me.” The kid seemed to be expecting bad news and had worried since his attempts to call home. He sat on the edge of a bed and faced his two coaches.

“What’s happened?” he asked, bracing himself.

There was no way to soft-pedal it, so Ecko relayed the conversation with the lieutenant and spared no details. He ended with, “It looks like all the homes have been burned and everyone has fled the village, and there are many, many casualties.”

Samuel leaned back, lay on the bed, and covered his face with both hands. He cried for a long time and was unable to speak. His coaches cried with him, unable to say anything that would help.

Frankie whispered, “I’ll go tell the team,” and left the room. He walked downstairs to the conference room, turned off the television, and told them what had happened.

“I have to go find my family,” Samuel said.

Ecko shook his head and replied, “You can’t do that, Samuel, not now anyway. It’s a war zone and you can’t get near it.”

“I have to go.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen, at least not now. Maybe later.”

Samuel sat up on the edge of the bed and wiped his face with a sleeve. “I should’ve been there.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Samuel. For now, until we know more, let’s pray for a miracle.”

“I have to go.”

“No, Samuel.”

He wiped his face again and took a bottle of water from Ecko. “I just knew something bad was going to happen. When I left home, I just had this feeling down deep that something bad would happen. I shouldn’t have left.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it, Samuel.”

“I just knew it. I just knew it. My father, my mother, Angelina, James and Chol. Why wasn’t I there with them?”

“Because you were here and they were so proud of you for being here, Samuel.”

He wept again, deep painful sobs that shuddered through his body.

The door opened and Frankie walked in, followed by all fourteen players. They huddled around their friend, hugged him, said they were so sorry, and wept with him.

They stopped at the edge of a dry creek and rested on some boulders. There were twenty of them, six women who were now widows, and their children, and they huddled together in the predawn darkness and whispered now and then. Beatrice knew two of the other women; all were from her village. All believed that their husbands and sons were dead, though they could not yet dwell on the massacre. It felt as though it was still happening.

They were desperately thirsty and hungry and had nothing but the clothes they were wearing. The smallest children whimpered and clutched their mothers, who were dazed, exhausted, and stricken with fear. They did not know where they were, nor where they were going. They weren’t sure they were fleeing the carnage in one general direction, or whether they had been moving in circles. The narrow footpaths they had tried to follow forked and twisted and led them nowhere. Several times during the night they were aware of others moving silently in the pitch blackness of the woods.

The sky to the east began to lighten, so they at least had a sense of direction. East over there, north to its left. But what did it matter when they had no destination? All that mattered was food and water. And safety. There were no sounds; no gunfire, no trucks. Nothing. Did the silence mean they were safe?

Emmanuel, a teenage boy from Lotta, appeared and asked if he could join them. Of course he could, but they had nothing to offer. He said he had passed a small farm an hour earlier and thought they should try to find it. Maybe the farmer would give them food and water and tell them where to go.