Chapter 49: Doctors Without Borders

Doctor Eberhardt Schmidt was a small man, past middle-aged, balding with a dark gray fringe of closely-clipped hair, who wore silver-rimmed glasses with small round lenses. His magnified eyes stared intently at Jon’a-ren and Michael sitting across from him at the Masi’shen Embassy conference room table.

“I am aware that your forces have been providing air cover and ground support for several months now, assisting the United Nations aid mission in central Africa,” Schmidt stated.

“That would be the Peace Rangers,” Michael replied. “They are based in Canada, an organization manned primarily by First Nations and Native American peoples.”

“Yes, but their sponsor and their technology is...”

“Masi’shen, yes. That would be us,” Michael interrupted. “You should also realize that the Peace Ranger mission is just that—peaceful and non-lethal—in support of United Nations relief and peace-keeping missions. They have no Masi’shen agenda, absolutely none outside of resolving conflicts and supporting humanitarian relief efforts under UN auspices.”

“Yet you cross borders and establish camps and conduct operations in warring states without their permission. When they attack, you destroy their forces,” Schmidt continued.

“As your own tragedies and expulsions, the deaths of your Medecins San Frontieres volunteers have shown, Doctor Schmidt, permits and permissions are often used as fetters and snares to confine, restrict and frustrate your mission, rather than allow it to succeed.”

“Yes, agreed. But that has always been the price of admission. Otherwise we could provide no aid at all.”

“A high price; a bargain with the devil, I’d call it,” Michael responded.

“It is no secret that your world, you Masi’shen, are behind the intercession in central Africa. It is also no secret that many political and religious factions bitterly resent and oppose the fact that you—an alien presence—are there, opposing them.”

“I wonder which they resent more: our opposition to their crimes against humanity, their jihads and terrorism, or are they more frightened and enraged by our alien existence. It was a hard shock for humans to wake from a long slumber to confront the fact of other sentient worlds, other peoples, and perhaps ... other gods?”

“No matter. It is a simple fact. Wherever we go or whatever we do, there’s no shortage of suspicion and anger. We accept it. We hope that in time this world will accept it,” Jon’a-ren replied.

“In such areas as central Africa, where we cannot perform our mission,” Dr. Schmidt said, “we face a difficult choice. We could go back and re-open clinics and hospitals. But we could do so only with your protection. And that would expose us to a more general threat. We have always maintained the strictest separation from any side; we have observed the strictest neutrality. Only in this way have we mostly avoided attack from warring parties. I think we dare not be seen as beneficiaries or allies of the Masi’shen. That would invite attack against us in many areas where we are at least tolerated. It might cost us the lives of our volunteers. We cannot permit that,” Dr. Schmidt reasoned.

“Nor should you,” Michael concurred. “However, you are able to conduct your missions in areas under UN Peacekeeping control, is that correct?”

“Largely correct, yes. And sometimes we and the UN peacekeepers are both attacked, and forced to withdraw. But that is not a matter of a breakdown in neutrality, but a result of unchecked aggression and violence.”

“Dr. Schmidt, there are several hundred refugee and displaced persons camps in central Africa. These camps hold from forty thousand persons, down to temporary camps holding a few thousand. The logistics of providing food, water, shelter, sanitation, civil order, record-keeping and census procedures, all of that is difficult, costly, and resource-consuming,” Michael said.

“Yes, there is little doubt that is a huge burden. You are fortunate to have excellent support from the United States and other wealthy nations.”

“You notice I did not mention health and hospitals,” Michael grimaced. “We do have aid stations and we are able—just barely—to avoid contagious disease outbreaks. Clean water and careful waste management are an essential part of that. Yet we do not have sufficient medical support. Have any people from your organization visited these camps recently?”

The Dart uncloaked as it settled to rest inside the Peace Ranger mission base. Michael and Doctor Schmidt emerged, together with several MSF staff from their Geneva center.

“The portable hut that you can see just ahead of us, is new,” Michael explained. “It is designed to be transported on a standard flat-bed trailer, or inside a cargo plane, or underneath one of our cloaked Peace Ranger carriers. It is completely self-contained, including a power generator. Let’s step inside.”

Despite the intense heat of the day, the hut interior was cool and dry. One end contained two racks of patient cots, an end-wall of medical supply cabinets, and fittings for monitoring and treatment devices.

The center section where they entered was divided into several head-high cubicles for patient screening with work counters, computer stations, and chairs.

Michael led them to the rear section, screened from view of the central area.

“This is our newest adaptation of the Masi’shen healing chamber,” Michael said. “It is modular and designed for immediate deployment in the field. It breaks down into three components: program control unit, chamber unit, and power module. Setup takes less than five minutes. It is self-diagnosing and field-repairable. The power supply is good for at least two years of continuous use without refueling. It generates no hazardous emissions or wastes. One trained medical technician can operate the device, although we prefer three for normal staffing. We can arrange a demonstration, if you like?”

The MSF people heard sounds outside; a camouflage-suited woman wearing a UN helmet gestured for the group to stand clear. Behind her, two more Rangers carried an obviously wounded and unconscious native woman. They gently settled her onto a wall rack near the chamber. The UN-helmeted woman reached into a cabinet for a hand-held device and began scanning the victim.

“Vital signs remain stable, field treatment holding” she called out. “Ready for insertion, now.”

The two Rangers grasped the litter extensions, twisted and folded them inwards to lock into a bar handle spanning each end, then lifted and lowered the litter and patient into the chamber. After setting her hand scanner back into its wall rack, the uniformed woman moved to the chamber’s control panel. A heavily-instrumented lid lowered and sealed the chamber; display screens illumined with flashing readouts and symbols.

“Treatment commencing; scans indicate all trauma within treatment range; estimated time for healing, two hours, fifty-three minutes. Advise standard nutrition and hydration pack fifteen minutes post-emergence.”

Doctor Schmidt stood unmoving, shocked and unbelieving. Two of the Geneva staff stood white-faced, barely containing their nausea. Another had fled outside and was bent over, vomiting. One stood behind Schmidt, holding her hands over her face, visibly shaking.

In the brief moment they’d seen the victim on her litter, the terrible extent of her disfiguring wounds bore bloody witness to a savage machete attack. Gaping wounds were flooded with a green-colored gel, but the pale ends of severed and exposed arteries continued to seep blood. Doctor Schmidt and the shaking woman behind him had seen other victims at other aid stations, slashed and mutilated. Few had lived to receive more than morphine and words of final prayers. Now they were seeing a miracle; this woman was alive, out of pain, stable, and now seemed to be resting inside that strange enclosure.

“I’m told that she was attacked in her village many miles east of here,” Michael explained, after receiving a private message. “Our Rangers on routine patrol interceded. This woman was among a few severely injured; two others are receiving treatment elsewhere in camp. It’s a grotesque coincidence that their arrival comes now. We had arranged for a malaria victim for this demonstration, a young child. We’ll treat her later after this poor woman is healed.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the shaking woman behind Schmidt interrupted.

“Yes? And please, who are you ... your name?” Michael asked.

“I ... I’m the ... the volunteer trauma nurses ... coordinator. I help ... I assign and assist them in this region. I ... we see a lot of that ... the attacks, the machete wounds,” she stammered. “I’m Sara, Sara Thompson ... from New Jersey.”

Michael glanced to the woman Ranger who remained at the head of the chamber monitor, but who could ease up a bit to watch Michael and their guests. She caught his glance; his lips formed silent words. She reached up to another supply cabinet, pulled down a small bottle, and handed it to Michael.

“Sara, please take this and drink it. It’s a mild sedative. It’s gentle but very effective. It will settle your distress.

“Everyone, I must apologize for this awful scene. Believe me, we had no such intention. I’m so sorry to catch everyone off guard like this,” he said.

Sara uncapped and upended the small bottle; she drained it in two gulps. She handed the empty back to Michael and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I wanted to ask,” she said after a moment, visibly much calmer, “how in God’s name did your Rangers manage to control her bleeding, to stabilize her so quickly? What was that greenish gel in her wounds? How did they seal those severed arteries? I’ve never seen ... we’ve nothing like that...”

“Let’s move to the front, and gather around in the bunk area,” Michael interrupted. “Ranger Sergeant Marjorie Adams, here, will demonstrate for you. Marjorie? You’re up!” Michael said.

Marjorie gestured to one of her Rangers: “Jack, would you bring me an Aid kit from the Llama supply stores? Thanks. While you do that, I’ll start explaining.”