Darfur
VEHICLES ROLLED FROM the belly of the C-130. The two Land Rovers were loaded with crates, and the canvas-covered load in the Unimog concealed just under half a ton of fuel, supplies and ordnance. Everything was marked as humanitarian aid. The 4x4s were painted the same beige as the dust storm that was kicking up. The jump-off was auspicious. With a storm coming the landing strip was abandoned. Lkhümbengarav backed a Land Rover down the ramp. “Sancho! Scotty! You’re with me,” Bolan shouted over the wind. “And Lucky, you’re in Rover 1!” Haitham shouted through the shemagh covering his face. “I am with you, boss!” “Hop in!” Everyone except Bolan grabbed his or her bags and clambered aboard. Bolan made the backing out motion with his hands. “Bring it out, Goose!” The Unimog truck rolled out under Pienaar’s guidance. Tshabalala was already riding shotgun. An MZ 125 SX off-road motorcycle was mounted on brackets on the front and rear bumpers. Bolan waved the last vehicle out. “Rad! Rover 2!” The Land Rover whined in reverse as the Serb extricated the vehicle. Nelsonne and Onopkov jumped in as a unit. Shartai shouted out of his scarf-swaddled face, “Boss! With permission? I will go with the mademoiselle!” “Go!” Shartai clambered in to Rover 2. Bolan squinted into the wind and dust behind them and clicked the tactical clipped to his shoulder. “All units, hold up. We have company.” Two vehicles were heading in their direction. Bolan raised his binoculars and examined the vehicles. One was a Chinese-made military 4x4 and the other a flatbed truck. The back of the truck contained nine men in camo. They all carried Kalashnikovs and their faces were swaddled against the dust. Bolan squinted at the dust-covered windshield of the 4x4. The man in the passenger was wearing mirrored blue sunglasses and a black beret. Nelsonne appeared at Bolan’s side with Mrda and Onopkov in formation behind her. Bolan handed over the optics. “Any idea?” “I believe it is Captain Osman Osmani.” “You know this jack wagon?” Nelsonne handed back the binoculars. “I do not know what a jack wagon is, but I strongly suspect that he is one.” “So this is a shakedown?” “Most likely. However, he is not some greedy, sitting-on-his-hands captain who just accepts bribes. He was very active in the fighting both in Darfur and South Sudan. It is very likely the United Nations will get around to trying him for war crimes. The information I have is that he has actually stepped up his strong-arming and extortion to build up his nest egg before he flees prosecution.” Grimaldi spoke across the com link. “You want me to take off?” “No, that’ll just make the captain suspicious. Come on out. Leave the ramp down, but be ready on my signal.” Bolan watched the vehicles approach. “Everyone out. Be friendly. Remember, we’re an NGO helping displaced refugees. I’m going to try to pay these guys and send them on their way. But be ready to take them down. Follow my lead.” The rest of the team formed up. Ochoa took position at Bolan’s right hand. “Hey, Jefe?” “Yeah, Sancho.” “You said take these guys on your go?” “That’s right.” “These guys got AKs. I can see them from here.” “It does appear that way.” “Yeah, but, you haven’t given us any guns.” Lkhümbengarav nodded. “What he said, hot rod.” “We’re in an international group of doctors, drivers and volunteers. Osmani and his men don’t expect resistance. If it comes to it, we jump the sons of bitches, pound them like nails, confiscate their weapons and disable their vehicles.” Ceallach cracked his knuckles with an explosive ripple of pops and cracks. “Right! The old-fashioned way, then.” He raised his hand and waved at the approaching vehicles in a happy fashion. One of the gunmen in the back of the flatbed actually waved back. The vehicles ground to a halt. The soldiers jumped down out of the flatbed, some with their rifles in hand. Others had them slung. Most had their folding stocks folded. They were in a low state of alert. The captain was more leisurely as he let his driver jump out and open the door for him. Two soldiers got out of the back. The officer wore a stainless-steel Ruger .357 Magnum revolver in a conspicuous gunfighter’s rig low on his thigh. Bolan arranged his face into an obsequious smile and stuck out his hand. “Good morning…” He made a show of looking at the patch on the man’s shoulder and smiling hopefully. “Captain? I’m Dr. Cooper.” Osmani barely acknowledged Bolan’s guess with a slight nod. He ignored the outstretched hand. The big American looked at his hand and lowered it sheepishly. The captain had the accent of a man whose primary language was Arabic. “I am Captain Osmani. I will see your manifest immediately.” Bolan blinked in feigned surprise. “We already passed customs and inspections in the capital. Is there some kind of—” “Your manifest, Dr. Cooper. Immediately.” Bolan nodded at Grimaldi, who held out his clipboard. Osmani’s driver intercepted the clipboard and then handed it to his captain. Osmani flipped through the pages listing medicines, medical equipment, water purification gear and various aid-station necessities. “Captain,” Bolan said, “I’m very sorry you had to come out in the middle of this storm.” Osmani inclined his head and gazed at Bolan over the rims of his sunglasses like a snake eyeing a not particularly fast or wily insect. Bolan recoiled and let himself stumble on over his words. “I mean, Captain, as you may have heard, there has been an outbreak of dysentery in the interior. We need to get our water-purification equipment on-site as quickly as possible. Every second counts.” He stammered like a man who wasn’t used to these sorts of negotiations. “Is there any way we could…” Bolan made a show of swallowing a frog in his throat. “Expedite things?” Osmani handed the manifest back to his driver, who handed it back to Grimaldi. The captain lowered his official hostility by a tiny increment. “I am aware of the ongoing humanitarian crisis. Rather than requiring you and your people to return to the capital and—” Nelsonne gasped on cue and clutched Bolan’s arm. “Return? But, no! We bring—” Osmani didn’t miss a beat. “But it would be better for you to continue your humanitarian mission immediately. However, since I have been dispatched in my official capacity, certain permits will have to be authorized.” Bolan looked at the captain like a deer in the headlights. “I understand completely. I was given some money for…discretionary expenses.” “Excellent.” “How much do you…?” Osmani sighed tolerantly. “How much discretionary income do you have?” Bolan very reluctantly produced a money belt from under his shirt. Osmani’s driver leaned in and whispered something in Arabic. Both men looked at the Kong brothers. The driver whispered urgently. Osmani went reptilian once more. “Who are these men?” “They are Abdullah and Salva. Interpreters recommended by the Red Cross in Nyala,” Bolan explained. “I am reminded of a story about a pair of twins I have heard. Rebels and war criminals who are wanted in Khartoum.” “Captain, I assure you—” “I am taking these two men into custody. You will submit to a full inspection of your cargo. You will mount your team into your vehicles and return with me to town where the matter will be investigated further. Your passports and all currency both foreign and domestic will be temporarily held. You will button up the plane, leave it here and the pilot will come along, as well.” Bolan let his jaw drop and made a show of failing to draw up some dignity. “Uh…team? This must be some kind of mistake. We’ll get it cleared up back in town. In the meantime, I want you to obey the captain’s every order and assist him and his men in all ways.” Bolan turned back unhappily. “Will that be sufficient?” “For the moment.” “What would you like to inspect first?” “You will show me—” “This?” Bolan’s sucker punch snapped the bridge of Osmani’s sunglasses and the septum beneath. The right uppercut lifted Osmani onto his toes and sat him down. Pienaar and Tshabalala exploded into synchronized flying rugby tackles that pushed two of the men holding their rifles into the dust. Bolan spun 360 degrees and his spinning back-fist clouted Osmani’s driver like a ball and chain. Nelsonne’s leg flew upward in a goose step from hell and her savate kick toppled a man, spitting teeth as he fell to the ground. Bolan looked for his next opponent. His team had the situation well in hand. The Executioner turned his head just in time to see Tien Ching relax his hands. Three men lay fallen at his feet in moaning ruin. Ochoa stood over a man who clutched his groin and vomited. Mrda had his
man in a stranglehold and was easing him down to the ground. Onopkov rubbed his head and lit a cigarette. His man lay on the ground with an egg-size lump between his rolling eyes. The Kong brothers gleefully stomped the truck driver who lay in a ball trying to cover himself. Bolan watched with admiration as Ceallach pressed his opponent over his head and hurled him against the grille of the truck. “That’s for you, wee man!” he roared. Wee man bounced brutally off the bumper and fell fetal into the dust. Bolan waved the Kong brothers off. “Enough.” Shartai gave the truck driver a last kick for good measure, then the brothers began walking up and down the line of violence, collecting weapons. Bolan looked at Grimaldi. “Where were you?” The pilot waggled the manifest. “Someone had to hold the clipboard.” “Thanks, Jack.” “No problem.” The pilot looked meaningfully into the mounting storm. “Can I go now?” “Yeah, you’re out of here.” Bolan turned to his team. “Haitham, Shartai, load their weapons into the back of our truck. Speaking of weapons, Lucky, break ours out. Goose, T-Lo, burn the command vehicle. Who here is good at tying up people?” Nelsonne smiled winsomely. “I am quite talented at securing men.” Bolan grinned. He bet she was. “Secure the prisoners. Rad, Val, help her and then load them in the back of the truck. Leave them any water they brought. Confiscate any phones or radios. Sancho, disable the truck engine, and I mean permanently, then help Scotty get the canvas top on over the prisoners. Once you’ve finished your jobs I want everyone to go to the Mog and Lucky will issue you weapons.” Bolan watched as his team set about their tasks with well-oiled precision. “We’re out of here in twenty.” 4 The Sudan The dust storm died at dusk. The team set up camp for the night in a dry creek bed and strung camouflage netting across the three vehicles to form a covered camp. It was a cold camp, as well. They kept no fire, and the heating elements of the MREs were used in the back of the truck. Bolan walked over to the Unimog. Nelsonne sat in the cab monitoring the radio. Everyone was bundled against the sudden chill. “Any chatter?” “Nothing on the captain, but I suspect his superiors keep him on a loose leash. He has carte blanche to commit his crimes, and they demand their cut when he reports in. I don’t think anyone will go out looking for him until tomorrow, perhaps the day next.” “You think he’ll come after us?” Nelsonne sighed. “You should have killed him.” “That would have drawn the wrong kind of attention. He was humiliated, and he’s going to have to explain how he got his ass kicked to his superiors. I’m betting he won’t. He’s going to pay off whoever pulls him and his men out of that stalled truck. If he tries to come after us, it’s going to be a private vendetta. I’d like to think I forestalled any official notice of our departure.” “You have a gorgeous mind.” Nelsonne sighed again longingly. “I would still like to have seen you kill him.” “It may still come to that.” Ceallach appeared at the other cab door. He held a couple of steaming coffee mugs and passed them out. “Bit of all right this morning, then.” “Yeah, you gorilla-slamming one of Osmani’s men was pretty impressive.” The Briton made a self-deprecating noise. “Call that a ‘potato toss’ back home.” Bolan knew Ceallach hadn’t come to reminisce about the morning brawl. “What’s on your mind, Scotty?” “Been talk among the lads.” “What kind of talk?” Bolan prompted. “Well, we’re feeling a bit like mushrooms, then, aren’t we?” It was a mantra invented by U.S. Special Forces during the Vietnam War. Mushrooms: kept in the dark and fed on shit. Ceallach sipped coffee and turned a contemplative eye to the Sudanese night. “Well, you wouldn’t hear me saying it… .” Bolan decided to give a little. “The target is a high-value individual, and may require forcible extraction out of a refugee situation.” Ceallach nodded knowingly. “You know, Striker? I’ve seen this movie. Wrong part of Africa, but in the end everyone dies but you and the sexy bird.” “I saw that movie, too.” Bolan nodded. “Wasn’t bad.” “Is there a sexy bird, then?” He gave Nelsonne a wink. “Besides the one we already brought along?” “There is,” Bolan stated. He slid out of the cab. “I’m going to check the perimeter.” “I’ll stay here and guard Russo.” Nelsonne smirked. Bolan scooped up his rifle. Lkhümbengarav had issued weapons just before the convoy had headed out, and grumbling had ensued immediately. Ceallach went so far as to give it the raspberry. Bolan’s team were all spec ops or at least elite-unit veterans. It had been some time since they had seen wood-and-gunmetal-blue weapons rather than black plastic and matte-black Parkerized steel. That wasn’t quite true. They saw it often, but almost always in the hands of the hapless people opposing them. The Chinese Type 81 rifle looked like a stretched version of an AK. The one nod to the twenty-first century was the forward-mounted optical sight that John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man Farm’s armorer, had mounted where the rear iron sight used to have been. In its favor, the rifle could fire the ubiquitous Russian .30-caliber ammo littering the Sahel, it came equipped with rifle grenade-launching rings, and Bolan’s team was currently dripping in them. Mrda was on sentry duty. The Serb spoke quietly across the link. “Striker.” “Yeah, Rad?” “Contact.” “All units, arm up. Prepare to break camp. Everyone get your night-vision eyes on. Drivers, get behind your wheels but do not start your engines. Sancho! Haitham! With me!” Ochoa appeared at Bolan’s elbow in an eyeblink. He had volunteered for the role of the soldier’s right-hand man, unasked for but with admirable will. Haitham loped out of the darkness. “Striker-man!” Bolan put a finger to his lips. Haitham fell into formation and the three warriors jogged toward Mrda’s position. They stopped running and quietly climbed the ladderlike clay side of the arroyo. They stretched out on either side of Mrda. The Serb was staring intently through the scope of his Dragunov sniper rifle into the wasteland. “They’re coming straight toward us, Striker.” Bolan brought up his binoculars. It was a scene he had seen more times than he could count. The people walked and limped in a small mob. Everything they owned they carried. The lucky ones had blankets wrapped around them against the evening cold. There were far too many women, children and the elderly, and far too few men and boys. They hunched and searched the sky for the sound of jets or rotors. They cast fearful looks behind them for the terror that had driven them into the desert night. Bolan saw no weapons beyond walking sticks and crutches. “Jesus,” Ochoa muttered. “‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…’” “‘Yearning to breathe free,’” Bolan continued. “‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’” Ochoa turned to Bolan. “Jesus, Striker! You gave me goose bumps!” “You been to the Statue of Liberty, Sancho?” “No.” Ochoa grinned beneath his night-vision goggles. “But I’ve been to the Rio Grande.” Bolan snorted. “You’ll do, Sancho.” He clicked his com link. “Scotty, bring up the SAW. I also need a canteen of coffee. Put a lot of sugar and powdered cream in it.” “Roger that, Striker. On the double.” Mrda’s sniper rifle never wavered from the refugees. “How do we play it?” “Me, Sancho and Haitham are going to go talk to them. You and Scotty are going to cover us.” Ceallach trotted up the arroyo with his Type 81-1. It was simply a Type 81 assault rifle with a longer, heavier barrel, a bipod and a 75-round drum. The Briton handed Bolan the canteen, then snapped open the legs of the bipod and took position next to Mrda. “Bob’s your uncle, Striker!” Ochoa sighed. “I don’t understand a word he says.” “Let’s take a walk.” Bolan walked out into the night flanked by Ochoa and Haitham. They covered about a hundred yards and stopped. Bolan watched the mob blindly approach through his night-vision goggles. At fifty yards he pushed up the device on top of his head and took a glow stick out of his web gear. He gave the stick a bend and a shake and a green glow filled the night. The platoon of refugees immediately came to a halt. Several individuals bolted from the group in random directions. Bolan stood with his rifle slung and waved in a friendly fashion. Haitham called out in Arabic. An old man and an old woman detached themselves from the group. Each wore a gray humanitarian-relief-issue blanket like a shawl and each leaned on a stick. The two came forward warily. T
he old man had an ancient-looking Sudanese arm dagger strapped just below his shoulder. Haitham nodded to the elderly couple and exchanged quiet words with them. He turned to Bolan. “They are Sirel and Mina. They are Christians, and displaced farmers.” Bolan uncapped the canteen and held it out. Sirel caught the smell of coffee and insisted that Mina drink first. Sirel waved his arms and spoke rapidly. Haitham translated. “They say bad men attacked their camp, though they got warning across the missionary radio and managed to leave. They fear the bad men are still looking for them.” Ochoa rolled his eyes. “What do they have that anyone would want?” “Women,” Bolan said. “And children. They’re commodities around here.” Ochoa turned his head and spit. “Christ wept.” “Haitham,” Bolan said, “ask them if it’s Captain Osmani they’re afraid of.” Mina spoke for the first time. She started speaking low, but she began waggling her stick and speaking in greater and greater outrage. “Mina says that Osmani is bad. Everyone knows who he is. He comes and he takes any gold or silver or medicine, but these men are worse. They come on horseback. They take everything, and they are led by a terrible individual called Yellow Mnan. They say he keeps hyenas in his main camp and feeds people to them.” Haitham stopped translating. “Something about him being an…evil ghost?” Bolan considered that. “Ask her if Mnan is black like you but has skin like me.” Mina nodded and made the sign against the evil eye. “He’s an albino.” Bolan knew how much of a badass an albino had to be to rise to a position of leadership in a genocidal civil war. Mina continued. “Anything Mnan does not want, he burns,” Haitham said. “Anyone Mnan does not want, he kills.” He frowned. “And Mina says when they kill they take their time.” “Sound like some real loco hombres, Jefe,” Ochoa added. “Janjaweed,” Bolan said. Sirel and Mina flinched in unison. Ochoa brightened. “Ganja weed?” “Janjaweed, Sancho. It’s an Islamist militia. They were originally drawn from the nomadic tribes in East Darfur. The Sudanese government used them to try to pacify the rebelling farming tribes who were mostly Christian and Native African animists. The lines got blurred pretty quickly. At one point it was rumored the government in Khartoum was emptying the prisons, giving each man a horse and an AK, saying, ‘Go west, young man.’ They were widely accused of genocide.” “Jesus…” “Jesus is right, Sancho. They’re real bad hombres, and loco.” Bolan did a quick head count and clicked his com link. “Russo, I need thirty-seven protein bars and the same of the bottled waters.” “Sacre bleu!” The French agent sounded bemused. “Do I detect a big, fat heart in that American chest?” “Just do it.” He turned to Haitham. “Ask them how far behind Mnan and his Janjaweed men are.” Sirel spoke for long moments. Haitham looked as if he might cry. “Sirel says his people are the dead, walking in dust. They leave little to follow unless one of them dies. He says Mnan probably does not know where they are, but he will be roaming for his next prey.” “Jefe?” Sancho asked. “Yeah?” “I don’t like this Mnan. I don’t like him at all.” “Me, neither, Sancho.” Nelsonne walked up with Onopkov behind her. The lanky Russian carried a big box. The refugees were scared of Bolan and his group, but they recognized international aid immediately and swarmed forward for food and water. Nelsonne smiled, chucked chins and passed out food and water and hugs like a pro. More than the concentrated calories and desperately needed hydration, the woman was passing out empathy, and hope. She was also quickly interviewing each person she fed. The French agent was also cataloging interviews as she distributed aid. When the last elderly person had cracked the cap on his water bottle and the last child had crinkled open the wrapper of his food bar, Nelsonne rose and leaned in to Bolan. “Tell me.” “What?” “Tell me we’re going to wipe the Sudan with this Mnan.” “The French do have the term ‘mission creep,’ I assume?” Bolan had to factor in the fact that Nelsonne was an intelligence agent and quite possibly had her own agenda, but the woman seemed to be getting genuinely worked up about the refugees. “Then why did we stop and give them food? We fatten them up for slaughter?” “To get intel? Because we couldn’t have them walk on top of us and set up camp?” Bolan suggested. “We’re going to kick Mnan’s ass.” “We just might teach him not to go our way.” Bolan watched the refugees as they finished their rations. They sat huddled together, literally leaning against one another to hold themselves up. Half had already fallen into exhausted sleep. Some couldn’t help themselves and tore into the rations Nelsonne had issued for the morning. “Or theirs.” “So we kick his ass?” Bolan considered the geometry of horror in sub-Saharan Africa. Sirel and Mina’s people had left tracks. The only reason they hadn’t been ridden down already was that Mnan and his cohorts had probably found something else to temporarily distract them. Sirel and Mina’s little band had women worth raping and young girls to be sold in the slave trade. They also had young boys who could be used the same way or turned into child soldiers; and when all was said and done, Yellow Mnan would be very interested to hear about a heavily loaded convoy headed into the interior. Bolan nodded. “We’re going to kick him in the nuts and see how he likes it.” Nelsonne rose up on her toes and kissed Bolan on the cheek. He smiled as his right cheekbone tingled pleasingly. The soldier clicked his com link. “Lucky, put the Rovers into gun-jeep configuration and prep the cycles.” The Mongolian grinned. “You got it, hot rod.” Nelsonne stood on tiptoe and breathed in Bolan’s ear. “Hey, soldier. You want to get laid?” “In Bruges,” Bolan murmured back. “And only if we win.” 5 Bolan’s caravan went hostile. By the dawn’s early light, Rover 1 now sported a recoilless antitank gun mounted in the bed and an automatic grenade launcher on the hood for the man riding shotgun. Rover 2 mounted a Russian .50-caliber machine gun in the bed and a light machine gun in the passenger-side hood mount. The caravan’s mother ship, the Unimog, had a ring-mounted .30-caliber gun on the cab roof. Each vehicle was packing a HongYing 5 shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile in the back, and had locked and loaded RPGs. Pienaar lit a cigarette. “So, you and T-Lo going on recce?” “If we’re not back by noon, start heading east. We’ll catch up. If you haven’t heard from us by sunset, we bought it. In that event I gave Russo a number to call. You’ll be informed of the mission parameters and asked if you want to continue. If the team agrees to go ahead, I want you to take command. Though I would pay particular attention to anything Russo has to say. The French have assets and intel in the region.” “Copy that, Striker.” Tshabalala walked up and the two brothers-in-law fist bumped. Pienaar jerked his head at Bolan. “Have him home at a decent hour, T-Lo. Keep your hands to yourself.” Tshabalala threw back his head and laughed. Bolan threw a leg over his bike. His MZ 125 SX motorcycle was German-made and ex-French military issue. The four-stroke thumper had been painted matte black and was remarkable for weighing only 124 kilos while at the same time being remarkably tough. Tshabalala checked his kit one more time and looked at Bolan expectantly. He had declared himself an “aces” cross-country cyclist. It turned out Pienaar was an actual local South African champion and had taught Tshabalala all he knew, but Pienaar was also the most experienced truck driver, as well, and had become Bolan’s de facto second in command. The Executioner pulled down his goggles and grinned at his companion. “Tshabalala?” “Say it ten times fast, china.” Bolan gave the scout a sly look before he pulled down his goggles. “Zulu?” Tshabalala grinned and pulled down his own. “Too right I’m Zulu.” “You’re down with the plan?” “Well, it sounds a bit like mission creep to me. Then again, this Mnan sounds like a real clutch plate.” Bolan kicked his MZ into life and headed out across the hostile landscape. Tshabalala took position at his eight o’clock. By sunrise the Sudan was beautiful in its own harsh way, and one had to experience the African sky firsthand to understand all the talk about it. The soldier followed the path the refugees had left. The track was faint, and the morning wind was wiping out what there was, but they were made of up the very young and the very old without much in between. Guessing their route was simple enough. It wasn’t long before Bolan saw dust in the distance. Tshabalala spoke ac
ross the com link. “Contact, Striker!” “I see it.” Bolan spun his bike to a halt. If he could see the contact’s dust, the contact could see the rooster tails Bolan and the Zulu’s bikes were hurling up. “Let’s set up shop.” Tshabalala brought his bike in front of Bolan’s broadside-on, and the big American laid his bike down behind it. He unlimbered his rifle and his optics and laid himself out across the warm metal of his bike. Tshabalala hid his rifle behind his bike, pushed up his goggles and stood in plain sight as if he hadn’t a care in the world; except that he might possibly be having motorcycle trouble. Bolan scanned the approaching dust cloud from behind his companion’s front forks. The only thing the horsemen were missing was a banner that read The Janjaweed Are Coming! The word Janjaweed was an Arabic colloquialism. Taken in context it literally meant a man, with a gun, on a horse. Mnan’s men qualified. The Janjaweed had gone from scrappy militias of Arabic nomadic herders who quarreled locally with the settled farmers over water and land resources since time out of mind, to well-equipped and organized cavalry cohorts that operated with overt support from the government in Khartoum, and often coincided their raids on farming villages and towns with Sudanese military air strikes. Fortune had turned once more. South Sudan was working toward full independence and Darfur was heading in the same direction. Much of the Janjaweed’s open support had dried up. Times were hard, but young men who had spent the past five to ten years raping and pillaging to their hearts’ content weren’t easily returned to the hardscrabble existence of herding goats and camels on the Sudanese plains. The Sudan was full of refugee camps and villages struggling to rebuild. The civil wars were nearly over, but there remained plenty of plunder for the hard-hearted. The oncoming men looked like a hard-bitten bunch. Native dress and turbans supplemented their remaining bits of well-patched army camouflage. Gold and silver bangles and necklaces stolen from the dowries of assaulted village women gave the Janjaweed terrorists a piratical appearance. A horse fancier would find little to love about the narrow and poorly conformed local Dongola horses they rode. The breed made up for their ungainly appearance with the hardiness and stamina that anything that intended to survive in the Sudan required. Tshabalala raised his shemagh and waved it happily at the horsemen. “I make it a reinforced scouting party, Striker. Probably others out there looking to pick up the refugees’ trail.” “I figure it the same.” The horsemen came boiling forward. Those who didn’t already have their rifles in hand geared up. Some fired their guns in the air. Others pointed their weapons at Tshabalala and fired wild potshots and bursts from the saddle. He stood his ground. As the range closed some rounds began cracking past a little too close for comfort. Tshabalala grabbed his rifle and dropped to a knee behind his bike. “Any requests, Striker?” “Spare the horses. Don’t start firing until they’re within three hundred yards.” “Okay.” They waited. Tshabalala made a disgusted noise. “Oh, can you believe that?” Bolan had never seen a man try to fire an RPG-7 from the back of a horse, but one of Mnan’s men had that can-do attitude. The Janjaweed rocketeer struggled to control his galloping mount with his knees as he leveled his launch tube. “That’s just wrong.” The rocket-propelled grenade thumped from its launcher and hissed across the plain. The outraged horse reared in shock and terror. The antitank grenade exploded about fifty yards wide into a rock formation. Bolan waited for the rearing horse to drop back to all fours, then shot the rocketeer out of the saddle. Tshabalala sighed happily. “We…are…engaged.” His rifle began cracking in slow methodical semiauto. “Cell phone!” he shouted. The two warriors fired at the same time and the tattletale shouting into his cell phone rolled back off his horse’s rump with the double hit. The remaining horsemen sawed savagely on their reins. Bolan swept his sight from target to target. Every time he dropped the hammer he dropped a horseman. The last Janjaweed terrorist stood in his stirrups defiantly and burned an entire AK magazine in Bolan and Tshabalala’s general direction. The Executioner rose as his companion’s first bullet sat the man back in the saddle and his second knocked him out of it. Tshabalala brought his smoking muzzle inches from his lips and blew on it. “Aces.” “Not bad,” Bolan agreed. “You any good with horses?” “I’m a fucking centaur, china.” “See if you can gather the horses up and string them. Police up any fallen weapons.” “Right, on it.” A few of the horses had sprinted away. Most were huddling together shuddering and pawing the ground near their fallen riders. Tshabalala sauntered toward them casually making South African cowboy clicks and chook-chook noises. For shell-shocked horses from a breed with a notoriously high-strung and nasty disposition they responded remarkably well to the Zulu invader. Bolan walked among the fallen. The ComBloc 7.62 mm rifle cartridge was the ballistic equivalent of the old American cowboy rifle .30-30. A man who took a round in the center body mass rarely needed shooting a second time. Falling off a galloping horse afterward didn’t help matters. Bolan gave the living water even as he opened his pack and began confiscating weapons, wealth and cell phones. Tshabalala came back with a string of eight horses and riding the lead. “How’s the treasure and spoils?” “We’ve got some pretty thin wads of Sudanese dinars, Egyptian pounds and Kenyan shillings. A pretty fair stack of gold and silver dowry bangles and necklaces.” Bolan glanced up. “Why do you ask?” “You’re gonna give the horses, the money and the guns to Sirel and his people?” “I was going to give it all to them.” “Don’t mind so much.” A pirate gleam came into T-Lo’s eyes. “Wouldn’t mind a dip into the gold pile. None of the lads would. Got a wife who might admire a bauble, a bangle or two.” “You remember Mina’s granddaughter? The one you bounced on your knee this morning and gave a candy bar? You had Goose take a picture. Tell your wife you tore the baubles, bangles and beads right out of her hands.” “Now, that’s rough talk, china.” “Those people have nothing, T-Lo. In this part of the world a dowry determines whether a woman gets a decent marriage or is virtually sold off as a slave. The women get the gold and silver. The men get the guns and the horses to keep it. Once I’ve gleaned any intelligence out of the cell phones, they get those, as well. It’s not much, and someone may well rip it all right back out of their hands, but if they can get across the border it might just give them a fresh start, and if any of their young men are left, it’s something to come home to.” “Aw, hell, Striker.” Tshabalala rolled his eyes. “Didn’t really mean it.” “Yeah, you did, but I knew the precious child of light inside you would see reason.” The Zulu snorted. “Well, can I be Santa Claus when we get back?” Bolan tossed him the jingling pack. “Be my guest.” * * * SIREL WEPT OPENLY AS HE pressed his forehead against Tshabalala’s hands. He endlessly repeated two of the few English words he knew. “Thank you…thank you…thank you…” The Zulu’s skin was dark like the refugees, and he spoke Arabic. He had played the roll of Santa Claus to a tee and Nelsonne and the Kong brothers had been his smiling helpers. The oldest and most infirm now sat upon horses. The Janjaweed’s blankets, shelter halves, canteens and food supplemented the refugee band’s meager supplies. All of the adults had a small roll of currency to call their own. The few old men who knew which end of a rifle was which, now had one. The mothers and matrons wore necklaces, and the little girls stopped just short of strutting as they showed off their new gold and silver bangles. Bolan had used his sat link to locate the nearest Christian missionary station. It was one hundred miles to the border, but Sirel seemed to know the plains. Ochoa sighed at the scene. “You think they’ll make it?” “I’m willing to admit to a ray of hope.” Bolan turned his gaze on Tshabalala. The Zulu merc felt Bolan’s stare. “Aw, now, I already admitted you were right!” Pienaar’s head snapped around. “You tried to dip into the refugee fund, didn’t you!” “Well, I didn’t, did I?” Pienaar punched his brother-in-law in the shoulder. “Love him, but light fingers on this one!” The refugees didn’t understand, but they laughed at the obvious tomfoolery. The Kong brothers took the map Bolan had drawn and began giving Sirel specific instructions and advice. Ching walked up with an uncharacter
istic smile. The Taiwanese operative held up one of the captured cell phones. “Clandestine does not exactly describe these men.” The number highlighted on the screen belonged to Commander Mnan. “Not so much,” Bolan agreed. “I have determined that the owner of this phone is named Abdullah. Mnan has left a number of increasingly agitated text and voice messages. Abdullah must have been the squad leader.” “Good work, T.C.” Bolan took the phone and connected it to his own. He pressed Mnan’s preset number. The phone call was answered nearly instantly. Bolan held the device away from his head as a stream of angry Arabic spewed out of the receiver. The name Abdullah figured prominently in the dressing-down. Bolan’s let his voice grow cold. “Abdullah’s dead, Mnan. Speak English.” The voice on the other end of the line suddenly spoke with a surprisingly cultured English accent. “To whom am I speaking?” “The man who has Abdullah’s cell phone.” “I see.” “Do you?” Bolan countered. “May I ask as to the status of my men?” “Two were alive when I left them. They received remedial first aid and I left them with a canteen of water each, but they require immediate medical attention. I’ll allow you to retrieve them.” “You are very kind. I gather the infidel farmer, Sirel, and his people are under your protection?” “I will allow you to come south far enough to pick up your wounded. Afterward I recommend you head north and never enter this part of the Sudan again.” Mnan’s voice turned sly. “And should I fail to take your advice, I gather you will not be responsible for what happens?” “I will be directly responsible for the death of you and every one of your men.” Mnan’s side of the line was quiet for a moment. “Did you know that when I stake a man out naked for the hyenas, they always go for the genitalia first?” “Good to know.” “I look forward to making your acquaintance,” Mnan said. “I’ll kill you as cleanly as circumstances permit.” Bolan clicked off and tapped the app for Home. “Bear, you got that?” “Got him,” Kurtzman replied. A satellite shot with gradients appeared on Bolan’s screen. A dot appeared to the north. “He’s calling from about a hundred klicks northwest of your position. I’m training a high-resolution imaging satellite on him now, give me a few seconds.” “What have you got on Yellow Mnan?” “Nothing good. He’s almost a Sudanese urban legend. Some sources say he doesn’t exist. It seems like the UN and African Union forces don’t believe he exists because they just don’t want to. It’s too embarrassing, and too horrifying. His depredations over the past ten years are reputed to have ranged from an arc all along the Darfur border, taking a nice long dip into the South Sudan and then back again. One reason no one can confirm his existence is that he doesn’t leave survivors. Anyone he does leave alive is sold in the human trafficking market and is off the grid. With South Sudan and Darfur turning into prototype states and foreign aid pouring in, he’s had to bring his troop back into Sudan proper. But there are so many refugees heading south and west out of the Sudan his pickings are still pretty good, and if he doesn’t have Khartoum’s tacit approval I’m a monkey’s uncle.” Kurtzman’s estimation jibed with Bolan’s. “Request Dragonslayer, air strike, on Mnan’s position.” The computer expert made an unhappy noise. “I’ll put in the request. Don’t hold your breath. As of now, Dragonslayer has permission for just one more task in the Sudan, and that is extraction.” Bolan had figured as much. “Keep me posted.” “Copy that,” Kurtzman replied. “You really going to send Sirel and his people limping south by themselves?” “What else would you have me do? Take them with me?” “No. You know what I mean.” “I do,” Bolan stated. “You have a mission to the east. Sirel and his people are heading south, and it sounds like this Mnan has a real hard-on for them. I can’t help but worry about those people.” “There’s all kinds of trouble between Sirel’s people and the South Sudan, but you don’t have to worry about them and Mnan.” “Why is that?” Kurtzman asked. “Because now Mnan has a hard-on for me.” 6 Captain Osmani glared into the mirror at the tape covering his broken and flattened nose. His broken upper-left incisor throbbed abominably. He thrust a cotton rag dipped in oil of clove against it and wished to the nine hells he hadn’t sold off his medic’s supply of morphine for cash. He resisted the desire to reach into the desk drawer and take another slug of French brandy. He had already drank a third of the bottle. Osmani’s driver and adjutant, Kiir, limped into the tent. The left side of his face was lumped and swollen from Bolan’s back-fist. Osmani snarled. “What!” “You have a visitor, Captain!” “Who even knows I am here! Who could—” The visitor broke protocol by showing himself in. Osmani’s face flushed and it made his tooth hurt worse. The man was Chinese. Despite the heat and dust, the intruder’s tropical-weight, English-cut, French blue suit was immaculate. His suit and his haircut bespoke the legion of Chinese businessmen and diplomats infesting Khartoum. To Osmani, the way the man carried himself clearly said soldier. “Good afternoon, Captain Osmani,” the man said in faintly accented English. “My name is Rao Kai Rong.” Some choice words in rejoinder occurred to Osmani. Instead he reexamined the man in front of him. It was well known that Chinese visitors were held in high esteem in Khartoum. In return for raw materials and oil, the PRC was pouring millions of yuans into the Sudan in the way of financial aid, military equipment and assistance in infrastructure development. From the government in Khartoum down to the local magistrates, everyone was privately dipping into this river of money. Osmani himself was a beneficiary of this largesse. Like most Sudanese military men, the captain at least privately objected to the army of Asian invaders who felt they could come and go as they pleased without so much as a by-your-leave. Osmani’s first and second assessments agreed. This Chinese was dangerous. Osmani arranged a smile on his mangled face. “What is it I can do for you?” “Perhaps it is more of a question of what I can do for you, Captain.” “How pleasing. In what endeavor would you like to assist me?” “I understand you have had an incursion,” Rao said. “What leads you to this…understanding?” Rao gave Osmani’s face a sympathetic look. “In fact it is only conjecture, perhaps I am ill-informed.” Osmani glowered. “Allow me to introduce a hypothetical, Captain. If indeed you were to have had, shall we say, an altercation, one in which you had been set upon in a cowardly fashion by foreign invaders, but during the altercation you had been in an unofficial capacity? You might be loath to report it. Particularly in the case that you had been defeated and had lost significant weapons and matériel.” Captain Osmani considered the Helwan pistol on his hip. It angered him further that the weapon was a battered reserve pistol. The American had taken Osmani’s prized, personal .357 Magnum revolver. He decided not to shoot the Chinese just yet. “And, so?” “And so weapons and matériel are easily replaced. Information, on the other hand, is priceless.” “Information always has its price.” Rao allowed himself a smile. “We understand each other exactly.” It occurred to Osmani that one or more of his men had been talking. “What do you suggest?” “Could you describe the men who so treacherously attacked you?” the Chinese asked. At the moment Osmani saw little reason to lie. It was obvious Rao knew of the situation. The question was how to profit from it. Osmani decided to put some cards on the table. “I believe two were local. Wanted war criminals and twins from the Kurdusfan. It was when I attempted to take them into custody that they suddenly attacked.” “The two Sudanese, were they the Kong brothers?” Rao asked. Osmani’s eyes widened momentarily. “So I believe.” “Who else?” “They were men of many nations, passing themselves off as an international NGO. There was a woman—I believe she was French—and a black man, but I did not hear him speak. The rest were Caucasians, Europeans or Americans, except two who were Asian.” “Asians? Interesting. Can you describe them?” “One was Chinese, like you. He annihilated three of my men, with his hands and feet.” “Interesting. The other?” “The other was different.” Rao cocked his head. “Japanese? Thai?” “I would not know the difference, but he was shorter than the Chinese I have met, but compact, powerful.” Osmani put his fingers to the corner of his eyes and pulled them up into thin slants. “His eyes
were like this, very—” “Mongolian?” Rao offered. Osmani released his face. “Yes, that would describe them, and him. Mongolian-looking.” “Interesting. Tell me about their leader.” “Big. American, by his accent.” Osmani nearly flinched as he remembered the heartbeat in time that the flustered, bumbling American doctor had blurred into a bone-crushing whirlwind. “Cold eyes, blue.” “A squad of foreign soldiers, mercenaries, posing as aid workers on Sudanese soil. Clever enough to arrange the situation so that you would be unlikely to report them, whether they succeeded in bribing you or defeated you.” Osmani’s fingers itched for his gun. “So it would seem.” “If you concur, I would like to leave the incident unreported.” “To be quite honest, Mr. Rao, I am considering killing you so that the incident remains unreported.” Behind Rao, Corporal Kiir’s hand went to the butt of his pistol. Rao seemed unconcerned. “If you were to do that, it would leave me unable to help recompense you for your lost weapons and vehicles. It would also leave me unable to help you quietly take revenge upon those who have insulted you and the Sudan People’s Armed Forces, as well as leave me unable to offer you extremely lucrative compensation for any aid that you render me in this…mutual situation.” “Please, forgive my being forward, but how is this situation mutual?” Osmani queried. “A team of foreign mercenaries, posing as aid workers, has invaded your country. Has it occurred to you to wonder what exactly is it that they want?” Osmani’s lip curled. “To fight for the rebels.” “The rebels are rather poor, and if they were to spend the money, would they not prefer crates of Kalashnikovs, RPG-7s and shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles as opposed to a handful of men, however skillful?” “They are military advisers, hired by the oil companies who want a free, non-Muslim South Sudan that is friendly to the west.” “A better guess, but why are they entering Kurdufan? The oil is farther south. Why spear inward into the heart of the Sudan itself? Their pretense of being NGO workers has already been shattered yet they continue eastward away from safety in Darfur.” Osmani considered that. His pain, the brandy and, to his chagrin, shame at his defeat had kept him from thinking about it clearly. “They want something.” “I believe so.” “What?” “What if were to tell you that your lost weapons and vehicles will be replaced, indeed, you will be given ones of much higher value and they will be expanded to equip, say, a platoon of your picked men? All of your men will be highly paid in cash. You, your second in command and your staff will be given private bank accounts with large sums in them. During our excursion into the interior, any and all plunder and spoils will be yours. Equipment, gear, vehicles, weapons and monies we take from the mercenaries are yours, as well.” “Very generous. What is it that you shall be taking from this endeavor?” “I ask only the right of first interrogation against any of the mercenaries, particularly their leader. When I have determined they are of no further use to me, you may take whatever vengeance you wish upon them or ransom any of them if you see fit.” “I see.” Osmani saw that despite the seeming generosity of the terms and assistance he was very likely getting the short end, and a very short end, of the stick. “Information is priceless.” “Indeed it is. For example, consider the value of information circulated in Khartoum, that Captain Osman Osmani is regarded with great fondness by certain allies of the Sudan. How might that affect his military career? Indeed, what if certain allies of the Sudan insisted that in security matters, military exchange, training exercises and arms sales on dealing specifically with General Osman Osmani?” “General.” Osmani spoke the word before he could stop himself. “Should foolish bureaucrats in Belgium wish to try to bring charges against such a dear friend and ally, would it not be useful to have friends in the General Assembly, indeed, the Security Council who would vouch for him, much less veto the attempt and strike his name from the rolls?” Osmani tried to control his face. He had spent the morning debating his options for bolting the Sudan. Suddenly his prospects expanded into the horizon. “I will further give you my word, Captain, that the information I seek, if it is indeed what is suspected, would be of absolutely no use to you. Indeed, if you were to possess it, it would most likely get you killed. It is the sort of information that takes the government of a world power to absorb, conceal and act upon.” Osmani wrapped his mind around that. This was obviously an intelligence operation of some kind. “This is the extent of my offer,” Rao concluded. “If we have an agreement, I hope you will allow me a small team of my own men.” “I have no pressing engagements, and you may bring whomever you see fit. How soon do you wish to leave?” “Shall we say in the morning? In the meantime, would you allow me the honor of sending a man to look at your tooth?” Osmani tried to keep the sudden rush of eagerness out of his voice. “That would be kind of you.” “Very well, I will look forward to seeing you in the morning.” People’s Liberation Army of China Non-Commissioned Officer Level 6th Rao walked out of the tent, then shook his head. Like all creatures not born to the Middle Kingdom, Captain Osmani wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face. Given the situation this was extremely useful, and given the situation a man like Osmani was exactly the correct tool. Rao hadn’t even had to lie. If Osmani proved as useful as Rao thought, the captain might indeed make general and be exactly the kind of toady Beijing would want in Khartoum. Rao took out his phone and punched in a code. He spoke to the robot operator defending the communications link. “This is Rao, Operation Dragon Fire is go.”
Line of Honor Page 2