Thirteen

Twenty minutes later we set out for Uhuru Peak. We’d had almost no sleep that night and had just completed an arduous climb so it was not a simple task. I’ve been on worse treks—much worse, in fact—but I was weary. The invigorating effects of the hot tea evaporated, leaving me deflated and cold.

Many climbers over the years have reported that they suffered the most during this relatively short stretch, what with the combined effects of altitude and the exhaustion of a climb following several days of strenuous hiking across inhospitable terrain. My legs were numb, and the air, if anything, seemed thinner than it had been. I’d just have soon called it a day, but there was an agenda here, one that wasn’t going to be denied.

A few minutes after we left, Tom joined me. “We’re in trouble. We should turn back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grant told me that a major storm is moving toward us very rapidly. He suggested the president call it a climb at Stella Point, but he’s insisted on continuing. They had him on oxygen while we waited, and he’s feeling better. He’s convinced himself this leg is a piece of cake.”

“I’ll go back if Diana does.”

Tom shook his head. “No chance. Hooker’s being a jerk, and she thinks she needs to stay close to handle him. He’s here because of her, right?”

“That’s not what she says.”

“I don’t mean by her action,” Tom explained quickly, “but whoever drew his name out of a hat meant for him to be here on the assumption that she could deal with him.”

Even as he spoke, the wind gusted violently and the temperature fell even more. I shivered and wrapped myself more tightly. A few minutes later, the sunlight vanished and it began to snow, pellets of ice immediately whipped along by the wind.

Our route followed a well-established trail across gently sloping, barren terrain. Snow gathered against any obstacle on the ground, forming small, slanting drifts, though the route itself remained free.

Our pace was slower than even these deteriorating conditions justified. Diana was now positioned at the head of our line, with Hooker, and the two of them were catching up with the Secret Service agents who were bringing up the rear of the president’s group.

I wondered again why we didn’t just turn back. He’d climbed the thing. This extra distance really meant nothing, but I recalled an article boasting how our athletic president would summit with his son and, as the reporter put it, “bask in the glorious sunlight of magnificent Africa.”

The snow increased in intensity, and it turned so dark that it was as though night had fallen. Headlamps and flashlights suddenly appeared and I turned on my own, but I could not see more than 20 feet in front of me. Weather on each of the Seven Summits is always unpredictable. Even with satellites and sophisticated computer projections, the unusual and unexpected could—and often did—occur.

We trudged our away in line, fighting the wind, struggling to see properly, disregarding how cold we were. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, otherwise freeing my mind of all thought. Time stretched into infinity measured no longer in seconds or minutes but steps. This leg of the climb expanded to fill a great void and seemed to last an eternity. I kept thinking it would end, that the line would stop, but it didn’t. To make it worse we were all but creeping through the storm, moving at what I’d otherwise have called a leisurely pace, with no sense of urgency. I began to wonder if this would ever end. I sucked air, disregarded my throbbing headache and lightheadedness. I stepped, then stepped again. Nothing else was important. Finally, after what seemed an enormous passage of time, the line stopped, advanced, stopped, then moved again. Word passed that we were there.

Uhuru Peak. The highest point in Africa.

We stood, exhausted, sucking the thin air like fish cast onto the shore. Every climber I could see around me resembled a grateful, uncertain survivor more than a conquering hero. There was no backslapping, no clumsy handshakes, no elation. It seemed to me that a sense of foreboding had fallen upon us, a disturbing realization that this had been one stage too far, that we’d made a terrible mistake in coming here.

Hooker, who’d been doggedly determined this entire long day, had recovered enough to chase his story. I moved up and saw him talking urgently to Diana, waving his arms about in agitation while she was still trying to catch her breath. Before I could reach them they moved toward the president.

I couldn’t see the president, though those nearby had formed a cluster that told me his location. He was like a powerful magnet or black hole, drawing all the life force about him toward the center. Secret Service agents had formed an outer perimeter and with their flashlights were covering the area around us, anxiously trying to pierce the raging gloom with their bright beams.

The various headlamps and the powerful flashlights gave the busy scene a surreal quality. People were becoming more animated and talkative. Even with all the snow and wind to interfere, there was now the flash of cameras, the glare of bright balls of light amidst the snow. I was pulled aside to have my photo taken with three guides in front of the wooden sign congratulating us on climbing Kilimanjaro.

I glanced at my watch. We’d reached the summit in just under nine hours. Nothing to talk about especially, though this final trek from Stella Point to the peak had been an accomplishment, given the conditions.

Once a mountain is climbed, then climbed again, what remains are bragging rights, freak shows, and records. In 2001, an Italian named Bruno Brunod reached Uhuru Peak from Marangu Gate in just 5 hours and 38 minutes, a record. The round trip record belonged to Simon Mtuy of Tanzania and a guide, who essentially ran up and down the mountain in 2004, managing the feat in the incredible time of 8 hours and 27 minutes.

Everything is relative, especially climbing one of the Seven Summits.

Despite the unpleasant conditions, the guides moved about, all smiles, inducing a celebration, which finally broke out—after a fashion. Once it appeared to have a life of its own, the guides gathered and broke into a song, which surprised me. There was a bit of energy left among the exhausted climbers, some of whom made motions as if to clap, while others swayed with the distinctive African rhythm.

When I looked more closely, I realized that Hooker and Diana were not among that group. They were at the periphery of the thinning presidential pack. A number of agents had joined those on the perimeter. Hooker moved as if to get to the president but was turned away. Nearby, the guides continued with their joyous song. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Onesphory leave his friends and approach his father.

Then all hell broke loose.

One of the primary objectives of military training is to make the response to certain situations instinctive. If you serve in combat, as I had, and are lucky enough to survive, those instincts have been honed to a fine edge. Once, in Central Park in Manhattan on a very pleasant day, I’d seen a 70-year-old veteran of World War Two hit the ground as an explosion occurred somewhere nearby that exactly mimicked that of a German 88. The body doesn’t forget.

Which is my way of saying that at the first sound of gunfire I dove onto the hard ground, then rolled before taking a peek. Through the snow and gloom I saw the repeated flash of gunfire and heard that familiar sound.

I searched for Diana and saw she’d taken a dive, as well, toward me. Hooker had fled, a very human and often deadly reaction. I crawled quickly to Diana and spread myself over her. When I looked again there was a volley of gunfire from the Secret Service agents, barked orders, shouting, then silence—except for the wind.

I looked toward the president. He was on the ground. I couldn’t tell if he’d been hit. Two Secret Service agents were atop him. Beside the trio lay Onesphory, a pool of blood spreading out, eating away at the white snow, his eyes appearing as though caught by a headlamp—vacant, lifeless.

The scene was bedlam. The Secret Service agents had by now formed a wall of bodies around the president and Onesphory. There was commotion off to my right involving the guides. It appeared that a struggle was taking place, then I heard two rapid gunshots. Agents rushed the scene and manhandled several guides apart, taking each one down onto the bare ground or a patch of snow.

One of those being pinned was Msingi. A gun was wrestled from his hand.

“Are you all right?” I asked Diana.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m okay. What’s happened? Is the president safe?”

“I think so. I’ll check.” I moved toward him. The president was still on the ground. I looked to the guides and realized that one of them near Msingi was dead. At least he wasn’t moving. Another guide was sitting on the ground, holding his arm, two others tending to him.

Calvin rose from Onesphory’s body, spoke briefly to the president—who was now on his feet looking stunned—then went to the guides, carrying a medical bag with him. He was joined by two of the medical team.

Msingi had been pulled upright and was being held by the Secret Service agents as he explained himself, though over the wind I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Calvin went first to the fallen guide, checked him for signs of life, then rose and shook his head at Grant.

The medics were with the other guide, checking his arm. They tended the wound while the others looked on.

I went back to Diana. “It looks as if the president’s all right. He’s not receiving any medical care and is on his feet.”

“Thank God,” she said, standing up herself. I took her arm to help lift her.

“Diana, I think Onesphory is dead.”

She threw her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. Please. That can’t be so.” She went quickly toward the president, saw Onesphory’s body, his scarf already moved to cover his face. She dropped to her knees and began to sob. I knew how she felt. He’d been a fine young man with a life full of promise ahead of him.

Tom came up to me. “The situation looks under control. What a shame about Opie.”

“Yes. A shame.”

“He gave his life protecting his father.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Either that or he was inadvertently caught in the gunfire. It had the same effect, since he blocked the shots.”

“What about Msingi?”

“It’s still all confusing, but Msingi says the dead guide shot at the president. Msingi jumped him, they fought for the gun, then, in the scuffle, he got control of it and shot the guide. The others agree that was what happened.”

“Who was the guide?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why he’d want to kill the president here, at this time. There could be any number of reasons I suppose. Most likely he was just a nut job, like they usually are. We’ll find out.”

“Where’d the gun come from?”

“That’s a good question. Everything coming up the mountain was searched and scanned. No one had a gun except for the agents.”

“But he did. He got it from somewhere.”

“Yes, he certainly did.”

Tom left to go to the president. The scene around us had settled down after some minutes of pandemonium. Climbers and the few guides who’d fled were drifting back, asking questions of those they encountered, making certain it was safe, asking what had taken place, easing tentatively back into the main body.

The president had by now regained his composure. He was standing—aloof, it seemed to me—talking and nodding his head. Not far away lay the body of his son. I didn’t see him look toward it once.

The contrast of the president’s reaction to that of Brendan and Ian was striking. They were in tears, holding one another for support, inconsolable in their grief. Tom went to them to speak words of comfort. Then all three of them were balling and holding each other.

Just then I spotted Hooker. He was ecstatic. He’d broken out a small HD camcorder and was filming everything. An agent went up to him and Hooker protested, backing away. I heard, “My right… First Amendment…You can’t…” Then the camera was gone.

Hooker glanced around and charged Diana aggressively. I joined them, standing just out of arm’s reach.

“I have every right to film this, to ask questions!” he shouted. “I’m the pool journalist! You can’t muzzle me!”

“I’ll talk to Grant,” she said, reasonably.

“My God, Diana! I’m like Zapruder when Kennedy got it! I’m filming the aftermath. What a scoop! Get the camera. This is outrageous. It’s history and I’m in the middle of it! You can see that much, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Christopher. I can see that much.” She left him standing alone and went to talk to Grant.

“What are you staring at?” he snapped when he realized I was looking at him. I didn’t answer.

Diana was quite animated with Grant, and after a few minutes she returned with Hooker’s camera. “Here it is. Just be tactful, and they’ll have to screen it for security issues before you release it. You understand?”

“Sure. Sure. Of course.” Without so much as a “thank you” he turned it back on and starting recording, moving around the scene like one of the photographer caricatures you occasionally see in a movie.

I’d been watching an agent using a Sat phone, then another device I didn’t recognize. He didn’t look very happy, nor did Grant when the agent reported to him. Grant had taken charge and was issuing orders to his team. I heard, “I want to know where the damn gun came from! No excuses. We need facts before we leave, and we need to leave immediately.”

I understood his concern, for despite the attempt on the president, nature had continued with its fury. The storm had worsened dramatically since the first shot was fired. The velocity of the wind was up and snow was falling so heavily that Hooker, I was pleased to see, was having trouble catching everything. He tried asking questions, but the wind was howling such that ordinary conversation was impossible. You could only be heard by shouting.

Calvin had returned to the president. A moment later the president was seated in a chair and a medic presented him with an oxygen mask. The president drew in oxygen as Grant continued simultaneously organizing everyone into groups, issuing orders, and demanding his agents learn in detail what had happened. The Secret Service men and women were noticeably angry. Hooker had been lucky in his confrontation. I’d not want to cross one of them or be perceived as doing so.

But what Grant wanted was impossible, given the conditions. Most of all, we had to get off the summit and start descending. Every minute we remained in these conditions placed us in greater peril. The priority of protecting the president would very quickly trump any investigation. I suppose that is how it always is after an assassination attempt and why so many conspiracy theories take such a hold on history. But the reality was that the president’s life did take precedent.

Diana left his side and joined me. “He’s okay. A little shook up. Calvin thinks he might be in shock. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

“What about the dead?” Often on the Seven Summits, at or near the peak, the dead were abandoned, as it was too difficult to take them down. This was especially the case on Everest, where hundreds of bodies lay on or beneath the snow. You literally climbed the last distance over the bodies of those who’d died attempting the same thing.

But Kilimanjaro was low enough that such drastic measures weren’t necessary, especially as we had more than enough manpower for the task. We were also dealing with the body of the president’s son—and with his alleged assassin. Both, for very different reasons, had to go with us.

Hooker was busy recording everything. He was the only one occasionally flashing a look of satisfaction. And I understood, though I didn’t agree. This was a career maker for him. He’d been here, the only professional journalist, as such, at the scene. His recollections would be enough, but he had the recording as well—not of the attempt itself but of the aftermath. He’d also been the brave reporter who’d stood up the Secret Service and demanded he get his recorder back. Yes, his future was certain now—and he knew it.

The oxygen mask was removed from the president. A few minutes later Grant gave the order that we were departing. Tom joined me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“There’s no communication. The sat phones aren’t working in this storm. There’s too much snow. It’s like a wall; the signal can’t penetrate.”

“They must have another system.”

“They do but it’s not working either. They don’t understand it.”

“So no one knows what’s happened?”

“Not yet. For now,” he said with a wan smile, “we’re on our own.”