Xenophobia by Peter Cawdron

playing cards in the shade. Their M4 rifles were never out of arm’s reach. The Hummer was gone, presumably to the hotel.
    "So what's the plan, Doc?" Jameson asked. "Are you and Dr. Kowalski going to stay here with the Red Cross?"
    She hadn't really thought about it, but Jameson was right. They were part of an NGO and not even from the same country as the Rangers. In that moment, she saw a glimpse of the valor with which the Rangers served. They had no official responsibility for her. They need not have escorted her to Ksaungu, let alone have hung around outside the makeshift hospital. Although with bands of thugs roaming the streets in pick-up trucks, brandishing automatic rifles, their presence had ensured the Red Cross outpost had remained orderly.
    In private, Bower had previously been critical of the military intervention in Malawi, saying what was needed was civil engineers and teachers, not more guns and bombs, but now she saw things in a different light.
    His was a good question, what were they going to do? In essence, Jameson was asking if she wanted to be released from his military care, and that was a novel thought, one with potentially profound implications.
    Somewhat absentmindedly, she said, "Ah, I'm going to have to consult Mitch on that." And she turned and walked back into the rundown building.
    Kowalski was working with Alile to clean out an infected wound on the leg of a young boy. Bower didn’t recognize the boy; he must have been a local.
    "Shrapnel wound. So bloody messy I can't tell if there's any metal still in there."
    "Mitch," Bower said, and the tone of her voice got his attention. He seemed to understand what was coming next. "The soldiers need to move on. What do you want to do?"
    You, it was a word pregnant with meaning. She hadn't said we, she already knew what she wanted to do, but she wanted to hear Kowalski's perspective. She liked to think he could persuade her to continue providing medical assistance at the makeshift hospital, but deep down she already knew she was going to leave with the soldiers. She was hoping he would say something that would make her decision easier, some justification she could cling to without feeling like a traitor.
    "I can't say I've ever been too fond of men marching around with guns," Kowalski replied. "But they saved our ass up there in Abatta."
    He pulled his gloves off, took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, lost in thought. He turned to Alile, saying, “Can you finish up?”
    Alile just nodded.
    Bower took a sip of water from her canteen.
    "It's one of those moments, isn't it?" Kowalski said. "We’re at a crossroad, where we can go one way or another, but it’s a crossroad we can never revisit if we change our minds in the future. Right now, we can go on either path, but this luxury won’t be around for long."
    Kowalski had used the pronoun we in his reply. He was more circumspect than Bower. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.
    "What do you think?" Kowalski asked.
    Bower looked around. The field hospital was already overflowing. Patients lay on metal gurneys in the hallways, quietly enduring until someone could tend to them, although tending was a misnomer. Beyond basic surgery, cleaning and bandaging a wound, there wasn’t a lot that could be done.
    "I need a crystal ball," she said. "I mean, we're trying to make a decision based on information we don't have, information that can only come in the future. Will the government of Malawi prevail? Will all this play out in a matter of days or weeks? Or will the war be protracted and go on for years? Will the UN ever return, and if so, when? But perhaps most important, what difference will that bloody alien space ship make?"
    Bower looked at Alile working away quietly on Kowalski’s patient. Alile didn't have to say what she was thinking.
    Neither Alile nor the boy could flee. The best they could hope for was to get across the border into Mozambique as refugees. They were