PRIMAL Vengeance (3)

by Jack Silkstone

  Mirza was also sinking, searching for Bishop. He could barely see through the black water. The throb of the freighter's propellers filled his ears. He started running out of air when his fingers brushed Bishop's arm. The bigger man was paddling frantically, trying to swim upwards. Mirza gripped the arm firmly and yanked his own floatation tabs. For a split second they hovered underwater before the buoyancy of Mirza's pouches overcame their weight and dragged them to the surface.

  Both men fought for air, floating in the wake trailing the 'Tian Hai'. Despite her mortal wounds, the ship was still plowing stubbornly forward.

  "Fuck me, I thought I was cactus," Bishop said between breaths, still holding on to Mirza.

  "You and me both, Aden. What happened?"

  "Some prick jumped me at the rail. He got off a shot that must have punched through my gear. One of the bags didn't inflate." Bishop threw away his helmet and started to dump ammunition, stripping off unnecessary weight. "You're starting to make a habit of hauling my arse out of the fire, Mirza."

  "Isn't that why you keep me around?"

  "Yeah, something about strength in numbers. Now, what's the go with the ship?"

  The two men were over a kilometer from the 'Tian Hai'. They could barely see her lights in the distance.

  "The charges definitely fired," said Mirza.

  "Yeah I can confirm that. It's the only reason I'm still alive. Can you raise Dragonfly? My comms are buggered."

  Mirza checked his combat interface and keyed the communications tab. "Mitch, this is Mirza."

  There was a short pause. "Mirza, my good man, how's the water?" The tilt-rotor was tracking their GPS transponders.

  "Damp. Can you pick us up?"

  "Roger, I'm inbound now, mate. Knock up job on the 'Tian Hai'. She's breaking up and the crew are abandoning ship."

  Mirza relayed the information to Bishop who gave a thumbs up.

  As the two PRIMAL operatives bobbed in the water, they could faintly hear the death throes from the sinking ship. The charges had cut through her central support structures and now the weight of her deadly cargo was tearing her in two.

  "We've bought South Sudan at least six more months of freedom," Bishop said as they floated side by side. "Job well done!" The satisfaction of mission success was stronger than the numerous aching wounds inflicted by the Chinese assailant. "Now all we need to do is get the UN to approve an increase in peacekeepers. Too easy really."

  They listened as the moans and shrieks of tortured metal cut through the cool night air until the turboprops of the approaching aircraft blocked out the eerie sounds.

  Chapter 3

  Khartoum, Sudan

  "Those motherless whores!" Omar threw his mobile phone across the room. It smashed into the wall breaking into pieces. "The entire shipment is gone! All of it! The tanks, the rocket launchers, all of it!"

  The Sudanese politician paced in front of his desk. His cheap shirt was stained with sweat, the buttons struggling to contain his girth.

  A voice emitted from the video conferencing system. "Do you know who is responsible?"

  "Those infidel Dinka dogs." Omar slumped into his chair, reaching for the bowl of candy on his desk. "Who else would it be?"

  "Whilst it is wise not to underestimate your enemies, it is also foolish to assume that poorly trained rebels could conduct such a sophisticated attack."

  The man who lectured Omar spoke excellent English with only the slightest of Chinese accents. His name was Han Zhu and he was the Chief Executive Officer of the Chinese Petroleum and Energy Conglomerate, PETROCON. A ruthless businessman, Zhu had almost limitless resources at his disposal to secure resources for China's energy guzzling economy.

  "What about the Americans then. Perhaps they had help?" Omar stuffed another fist full of candy into his mouth.

  "This is unlikely." Zhu stroked his short beard as he weighed up the situation. The sinking of the cargo ship was a significant loss for his company, but unlike Omar he viewed it dispassionately, a business setback, a problem to be solved. "American interests in Africa are orientated mainly towards Al Qaeda and Somalia. They have their hands full with their own wars in the Middle East."

  "What about the British then, or the French?" asked Omar. "They had men in Libya. Maybe they have sent them south? Or the South Africans? They are always meddling in our affairs."

  "You chase shadows, Omar. Leave the investigation to my people. We will find those responsible."

  "Bah! Your people. It was your people who failed us in the—"

  Zhu cut him short. "Do not snap at the hand that feeds you, Omar. Without me you would still be squabbling in the mud with the rest of your pitiful nation. Look out the windows of your palace and remind yourself who makes it so."

  The Oil Minister gritted his teeth as the Chinese businessman continued. "The shipment is no longer your concern. I will find who is responsible and they will be dealt with. Now YOU must find new ways to push back the rebels and claim the oil fields."

  "Without tanks it will be difficult," said Omar.

  "Difficult but not impossible."

  "No, not impossible. We will need more equipment, and better weapons to exterminate the vermin." He looked up eagerly at the camera. "If you could supply gas shells for our mortars my men would soon kill them all."

  Zhu stroked his beard as he contemplated the request. "No, we cannot afford to bring the world's attention to their plight. Gassing them would condemn us."

  "No one would know."

  "Don't be a fool, Omar. If the UN thinks that you are using chemical weapons their observers will descend upon you like locusts. The Western world will occupy your country with their armies and China will lose our influence. No, we must use conventional means to crush our enemies."

  "Without the additional equipment the President will never approve the use of the army. That was the deal!" Omar was becoming animated again.

  "What about your own fighters, the horsemen?" asked Zhu.

  "The Janjaweed already raid the border tribes to the west. They spread fear but they do not have the weapons or the vehicles to push the southern militias from the area."

  "China will provide all you need. Our Abyei refinery will be the logistics base and we will support your horsemen against the southerners. I have an agent I will send. He will organize your rabble into an army and they will defeat our enemies."

  Omar shook his head. "The Janjaweed will not accept an outsider. Send guns and ammunition but do not send men."

  Zhu stared into the camera at Omar. "Believe me when I say, they will accept this man."

  ***

  Over ten thousand kilometers away, in the skies above Mongolia, Zhu terminated the conference call with Khartoum.

  Omar irritated him. A small time thug in a position of great influence and responsibility. A man whose stupidity he was forced to entertain, for now. He nodded towards the pretty flight attendant who responded with a warm hand towel and a glass of Maotai. Relaxing into his chair, he sipped the traditional Chinese liquor and stared out the business jet's window at the bleak landscape below.

  Zhu's thoughts were interrupted by the stewardess. She handed him the aircraft's satellite phone. "It's him, sir."

  Zhu handed her his glass and took the phone.

  "Yang, what have you learned?" he asked in Mandarin.

  "Not as much as I would like. No one on the coastline saw the aircraft. It must have stayed out to sea."

  "Perhaps another vessel? One of the counter-piracy task force?" asked Zhu.

  "No. I have already checked with my contacts there. None of their helicopters were in the area."

  "This man you described to me, could he have been South African?"

  "A mercenary? It is possible. I cannot place his accent. His equipment was modern, definitely trained by a Western nation. Perhaps one of our competitors has hired outside help."

  "It would seem so. I want you to hand your investigation over to MSS. Your skills are needed in Sudan."
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  Yang did not respond immediately. The humiliation of the 'Tian Hai' being sunk was still sharp and handing over the investigation would be a further embarrassment.

  Zhu continued. "I promise you, Yang, if the investigation reveals anything, you'll be the first to know. Right now the action is in Sudan."

  "I can be at the refinery within twelve hours."

  "Contact me when you arrive."

  "Yes, sir."

  Zhu ended the call and handed the phone to the waiting stewardess who replaced it with a re-filled glass. He sipped it and studied the Mongolian steppes through the window. Why is it that oil is always found in the most miserable of places, he thought.

  Chapter 4

  Juba, South Sudan

  The teaching hospital in Juba was a single story brick building nestled in the heart of the South Sudanese capital. The streets that surrounded it were hard-packed earth, the dwellings merely shantytowns of corrugated iron and salvaged materials. Juba was a city of poverty despite the wealth of natural resources betrothed to the fledgling nation.

  Dr Jess Hutton had been working at the hospital for over a year. Idealistic, free of spirit and fresh out of medical school she had tried to sign on with Médecins Sans Frontières. Doctors Without Borders had turned her down. The rejection letter had told her to gain more experience. Unperturbed, she dipped into her own savings and bought a ticket to Juba. On arrival she had offered her services to a not-for-profit organization providing support to the teaching hospital. Twelve months later Jess was running the small establishment. She managed a cadre of local nurses and took care of the endless stream of victims from the ongoing civil war.

  It was four days since the Dinka warriors had brought Garang to the hospital. He had slipped in and out of consciousness during the long drive from Khartoum and by the time they reached Juba he had degenerated into a partial coma. Jess had met them at the gates with a stretcher and orderlies. She did not recognize the battered body when they unloaded the stretcher from the vehicle, the face mangled beyond any form of recognition.

  It was Jonjo who had broken the news that the badly beaten soldier was in fact her lover, Garang. With tears streaming down her cheeks she had rushed him into the tiled room that served as their emergency department. Without any of the technology of a modern hospital there was little she could do other than insert an IV drip into his bruised body and wait. It had taken four long days before Garang began to stir.

  "Doctor Hutton, Doctor Hutton!" the Sudanese orderly ran yelling down the hospital's single corridor yelling.

  Jess appeared from one of the doorways a finger raised to her lips. "Quiet, Samir, we have patients recovering." Dressed in her whites and with her long, brown ponytail the American doctor resembled a star from a TV hospital drama. An uncommonly beautiful woman surrounded by the stench of poverty and the wounds of war.

  "I'm sorry, Doctor Hutton," the orderly whispered excitedly as he skidded to a halt. "But it's Garang; he's awake."

  The smile that split Jess's oval features filled the gloomy hospital with energy as she hurried to his private room. The two had met not long after Jess's arrival in the country. With their shared American backgrounds, they quickly became friends. It had not taken long for the impressionable young doctor and handsome freedom fighter to become lovers.

  Garang was sitting up in bed, his once handsome face still swollen beyond recognition. He turned towards Jess, dull eyes staring as she entered the room. She sat down next to him and took his hand.

  "They killed him," he croaked.

  "I know."

  "They cut off his head, Jess, and I couldn't do anything." Tears ran down his bruised face as he held her hand tightly. "They have it all: the oil, the money, the weapons. What do we have?"

  "Brave men like you; men willing to fight."

  "Is it enough? When our leaders are fools? They sent us to Khartoum to beg for scraps. Men of courage don't send their bravest warriors into the heart of enemy territory to have their heads hacked off with a rusty saw. They're cowards, not leaders." Garang met her eyes, a pained look on his damaged face. "They're dragging us kicking and screaming down a path of submission, Jess. Khartoum will rape us of our wealth and our leaders will argue over a few drops of oil."

  "But we can fight!" A young man of around seventeen stood in the doorway. Dressed in olive fatigues, a battered AK47 slung over his shoulder. Jonjo was one of the few Dinka warriors who spoke good English; a result of his upbringing in a Christian orphanage. "The army can fight and we can beat them."

  "The army is finished, Jonjo. They fight amongst themselves for Khartoum's money. The independence movement is drowning in greed."

  "Then start again," said Jess.

  "What? Build another army?"

  "You were in the US Army, Garang, you've had more training than anyone else. Who better to do it?"

  "That's true," he agreed, glancing at the young soldier standing in the doorway. "I mean, I taught Jonjo how to shoot."

  Despite only receiving basic training in the US Army and having worked in supply, Garang had impressed the soldiers of the SPLA. Many of them had never even been taught how to use the sights on their AK47s.

  "The men will follow you. The chief trusted you." Jonjo was still a teenager but his youthful features had seen a lifetime of violence. Like Garang, he had hoped the Referendum of 2011 would be the end of the civil war. With peace would come the oil companies and prosperity, but the beheading of their chief and savage beating of Garang gave the lie to that dream. The only chance now was to keep resisting and hope the international community would pay attention.

  "Jonjo, how many men do we have?"

  "Thirty or so. More if we can get guns."

  "The Arabs won't stop until they have raped all they can from our land," Garang spoke with conviction. The dull throbbing of his wounds was forgotten as his thoughts went to revenge and glory. "If you and the men will follow me, Jonjo, I will lead. We will fight Khartoum and if we hold out long enough the Western world will support us."

  Jonjo's eyes lit up in hope.

  Garang continued. "We will fight and when the oil companies come to us, then we will inherit what we deserve." He slowly sat upright and swung his legs off the bed. Grimacing in pain, he reached for his boots. "Get the men together. Today will be the first meeting of the Southern Freedom Fighters."

  "Yes, Garang," Jonjo replied excitedly, and left the room at a trot.

  Garang struggled to get one of his boots on, his arm still too badly bruised to function properly. Jess gently pried it from his hand and placed it back on the floor.

  "You still need to rest, Garang. Your body is yet to heal."

  "Stop it with your mothering, woman." He reached for the boot again. "There is work to be done. If I cannot build an army then who will protect the villages? I need to get back to the Dinka."

  "Fine. Go!" She kissed him on the cheek. "But make sure you rest. Let Jonjo do the running around."

  Garang managed to pull the boot over his sock. "I will rest once we have what is rightfully ours and Khartoum is no longer stealing our oil!"

  Chapter 5

  PETROCON Oil Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan

  The PETROCON refinery was located in Sudan within fifty-five kilometers of the still disputed Abyei border region. Constructed, manned and owned by PETROCON it towered over the surrounding bushland, a monument to Chinese engineering. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week it belched flames and smoke into the clear blue skies and spilled oil on the red soil. A tall chain fence shrouded in plastic adorned a wall of earth, protecting the expensive infrastructure from any threats. The only parts visible were the tall smokestacks, huge oil tanks and the pipes that led to the oil fields. Animals and locals alike avoided the area, terrified of the flames and smoke that spewed from its burn-off towers.

  Jonjo lay in a patch of thick bush watching the Chinese security detail patrol the strip of earth that surrounded the facility. They were dressed in black fa
tigues and walked casually, their assault rifles slung. It was early morning, just after dawn. The air was still and the smell of fuel hung heavy in the air. He lay hidden in the undergrowth, his AK47 cradled in his arms, his sharp eyes watching every move.

  The four man security team stopped periodically to scan the landscape, searching for any sign of an intrusion. They moved along the same packed-earth trail, weapons hung casually over their shoulders. Jonjo shook his head slowly. These men had no place in the African bush. They walked straight over the tracks he had attempted to hide the night before; a good bushman would have seen the subtle disturbance and known something was amiss. Not these men. Jonjo had seen better bush skills from ten year olds.

  Despite his youth the Dinka warrior was a veteran of the civil war and an experienced bush scout. Five long years ago, at the age of twelve, a raiding party had snatched him from an orphanage and he had been destined for a short life of rape and abuse. It had been the Dinka who had ambushed the raiders and freed him. It was the chief who had taken an AK47 from a dead man and placed it in his hands.

  As the guards disappeared around the corner of the facility Jonjo relaxed and reached for his backpack. Inside were his supplies, food, water, radio and few spare magazines for the AK. He rummaged through it and pulled out a battered exercise book and a pencil. Flicking it open he turned the pages past where the doctor, Jess, was teaching him to read and write. At the back of the book he had drawn a map of the refinery. Despite a lack of education Jonjo was a talented artist, one of the reasons that Garang had given him this mission.

  The sketch map that Jonjo had drawn was detailed. It showed the perimeter fence with its fixed guard boxes and the heavily guarded front gate. He had measured the size of the facility, it was four hundred paces on each side.

  The previous night he had crept across the oil-stained clearing, sliding alongside one of the pipes that brought the crude oil from drill rigs in the south. Scrambling up the bank of earth topped with the wire fence, he had peered through a tiny tear in the thick black material to see what was inside. The bright lights had revealed a miniature city: machinery, towers covered in lights, rows of box-like buildings. Back in the safety of the bush he had marked the positions of the tanks and pipes, as well as the car park filled with trucks.