by Jack Mars
“Right,” Luke said. “Which is why I called you men in. We’re not coming out. Rescuing the girls is not our primary mission. But we know where they are, and we’re not going to leave them in there. Once they’re free…”
Walsh was shaking his head again. “It’s too dangerous. Boko Haram will use the girls as human shields. Or once they’re aware that you’re approaching, they’ll simply kill them. They’ll herd them into a hut and set it on fire.”
Luke made a mental note of that.
“They’re not going to be aware of our approach,” Dunn said. “Until it’s too late.”
Walsh glanced up at Dunn’s tall, glowering presence, his eyes of fire—murderer’s eyes, Luke had heard it called. Dunn was like a lot of special operators. Looked at from the perspective of regular humans, he was scary. But Walsh, much smaller, fifteen years older, and a doctor long accustomed to war zones, wasn’t buying it.
“I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard that level of self-aggrandizement and overconfidence from men just like you,” he said. “Right before they died.”
The other doctor, Garcin, spoke up. “I see where you’re going with this. We can help you. We have two helicopters available to us in the city of Maiduguri, very close to the forest. They can fly by night, lights out. We can bring medical and security personnel to your location, treat the girls, and help hold the fort. In the morning, we can radio our position to the Nigerian military.”
“We can’t interact with the Nigerians,” Dunn said. “They can never know we were there.”
“The girls…” Walsh began.
“The lives of the girls are forfeit,” Garcin said, “unless something is done.”
“Okay,” Walsh said. He looked at Garcin. “But you’re committing to send helicopters into the forest with personnel on board. If any Boko survive this… attack, or whatever it is, those choppers are going to be in danger from ground fire.”
“No one is going to survive this attack,” Ed said. “It’s going to be a slaughterhouse.”
Walsh nodded. “That’s what worries me. But I’ll say this. If you go in that forest, and you somehow survive, and even carry the day, then contact us. We’ll come. We’ll risk it. We can bring the girls out. And you can disappear.”
Luke nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
It was good. A plan had begun to form in his mind, and it didn’t include walking slowly with a hundred traumatized girls through miles of hostile, sweltering forest. His plan did include capturing one or two Boko Haram, and gaining new intelligence from them. People talk. By now, that missing weapon was probably an open secret among the Boko Haram militants.
Suddenly, the young captain was returning, working his way back through the narrow walkway between sandbags. He had two more men with him this time, but these ones had camo uniforms on. Each man wore a brassard on his left arm that was all too familiar. The patch was gray with black lettering: MP.
Military police.
Luke glanced up at the light fading from the sky. They weren’t going to sick the MPs on him, were they? Susan wouldn’t allow such a thing.
Would she?
Maybe they did it without telling her. Maybe this was why Trudy had been calling him so frantically—to warn him he was about to be arrested.
Note to self: answer Trudy’s phone calls.
The captain reached them, MPs in tow.
“Captain Wallace?” Luke said. “What’s new?”
“Agent Stone, I regret to inform you I have been instructed to arrest yourself, Agent Newsam, and Mr. Dunn, terminate your operation, and return you by the fastest means possible to Airbase 201 at Agadez.”
Luke glanced around. They were three stories up. It was still daylight. And they weren’t about to fight their way out past a bunch of Americans.
There was nowhere to go.
Wallace pulled out his firearm, a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer XM17. He slid the magazine out, opened the cylinder and inspected the inside. He slid three more magazines from the pockets of his pants. He turned the gun around and offered it to Stone, grips first.
Luke tentatively accepted the gun, and the magazines. He rechecked the gun and slid the original magazine back in.
“Unfortunately,” Wallace said, “I’ll be forced to report to my superiors that when I attempted to arrest you, you and your team had already left the area. We searched the immediate vicinity of the forward operating base, but you were nowhere to be found.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
6:35 p.m. West Africa Time (12:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Sambisa Forest
Borno State, Nigeria
Border with Chad
In the forest, when night came, perfect dark descended.
The ancient military truck moved slowly through the darkness, headlights off, bouncing along the rutted and pitted dirt road. Old springs squeaked and squealed, as the engine blatted and farted black smoke, smoke darker than the forest itself.
Two dozen men walked with the truck, in front of it, alongside it, behind it. They wore dark green camouflage kaftans and pants, and heavy black combat boots. They wore black bulletproof vests. They carried AK-47 rifles. A few in front carried flashlights, sweeping the road ahead for unseen obstacles.
“How soon?” the man in the passenger seat said.
His name was Yisrael Abdul Salaam. Yisrael, the Servant of Peace. He smoked a cigarette and gazed out at the black night all around them, at the dense forest climbing the steep hillsides, illuminated only by the millions of stars in Allah’s heavens. It was a warm night, warm but dry, with the slightest breeze.
As always, the forest night was alive with sound.
“Very soon,” the truck driver said. “Any moment.”
Yisrael nodded. “Good.”
This was an important meeting they were driving to, and it was precious cargo in the back of this truck. Yisrael stroked his long beard. It was a nervous habit, and he was hardly aware he was doing it.
He had gambled and purchased something sight-unseen from a young Lagos pirate, a Kanuri from this very region, whom Yisrael had mentored when he as a boy. Crazy Eddie, the young man called himself. He had hardened his heart against Allah, but even so, when Crazy Eddie acquired this thing, Yisrael was the first one he called.
Yisrael shook his head and nearly laughed. Perhaps he was too hard on Eddie. He would either return to Allah, or he wouldn’t. The Perfect One saw everything, including what was hidden in the hearts of men. In the end, Eddie had sold Yisrael the device for one million American dollars, a bargain. A steal.
Yisrael was about to sell the very same device to the brothers from the north for ten times that amount. It was a dream come true. The believers in Nigeria had been under terrible pressure. There had been many deaths at the hands of the military. It had taken nearly all the money in the coffers to buy a ceasefire, a temporary reprieve.
Recruiting was down; young men from Maiduguri saw better opportunities in Lagos. They were lured away by the temptations of Satan. They traded the life of Allah for the life of this world, the life of the flesh.
Boko Haram was running on fumes.
But that was about to change. A nine-million-dollar profit would instantly change their fortunes. They could afford to buy new and better weapons. They could afford to once again feed the parents and siblings of the young men who joined. A little money went a long way in a poverty-stricken city like Maiduguri—the scent of it would bring more into the fold. It was a fact of life in this sinful world—money would bring new believers like moths to the flame.
Praise God, it would also bring modest lifestyle upgrades to men like Yisrael—the leaders of this great movement. Yisrael had four official wives, and they had given him eleven children. But he had also taken wives among the young girls seized from the non-believers, concubines really, slaves, and that had brought even more children. Yisrael was up to his neck in wives and children. It was a type of prosperity decreed by The Prophet himself. It wa
s also expensive.
Surely Allah approved of a man providing for his large family?
Surely it was fair to charge Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb for a weapon they could use to smite the enemies of the truth? After all, Al-Qaeda had been blessed by Allah with the wealth of sultans, while Allah’s humble servants in Nigeria went begging.
Surely Allah would bless this transaction, and it would lead to renewed friendship, understanding, and cooperation between the two groups? Boko Haram and Al-Qaeda fought for the same goal, the establishment of God’s kingdom on Earth, did they not?
The methods might vary, but the ends…
“We’re here,” the driver said. “This is it.”
Yisrael peered into the darkness. They had reached the bottom of a long hill, and a large field opened in front of them. Yisrael did not like this part of the forest. As you approached the border with Chad, the influence of Lake Chad began to be felt—the strange thickness growing in the air, the soft and wet areas of land, the plague of mosquitoes and the diseases they carried.
He understood why the meeting had to happen here. Al-Qaeda could not enter Nigeria without sparking a wide open war, the Chad military was open to the highest bidder, and Chad itself was a land easily traversed.
Even so, Yisrael wanted to make this trade, then return to the parts of the forest he knew and loved.
“Where are they?” he said.
Suddenly, as if to answer his question, giant floodlights came on in front of them in a rough semicircle. Yisrael shielded his eyes. There were at least ten lights, maybe more. It was very foolish; they had driven the truck here in darkness to avoid detection from the skies. Now this.
Just as suddenly as they came on, the floodlights dimmed. Weak, but not blinding, light remained. In the light, Yisrael could see the forces arrayed to meet them. There were at least a dozen four-wheel-drive pickup trucks with rear-mounted heavy guns. There must be a hundred men. There were three large military cargo helicopters. Out of the gloom came two big forklifts.
The men outside his window—his men—murmured among themselves.
“Steady,” Yisrael said. “Fear nothing.”
He opened his door and stepped down from the truck. The ground was soft and wet beneath his feet.
A group of men approached. The leader was a tall, bearded Arab in a dark kaftan and kufi—in this light, Yisrael couldn’t decide if the clothes were black or blue. The man was accompanied by a handful of heavily armed Arab or Berber men, their faces obscured by dark blue head scarves—probably Tuareg tribesmen—and a larger group of heavily armed black men in the tan uniforms of the Chad military—probably actual Chadian soldiers.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” the man said.
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” Yisrael said.
Yisrael knew this man—he had met him before several times. Rajan Muhammad, he called himself. Yisrael knew very little about him. Perhaps he was Moroccan, perhaps Tunisian.
“Yisrael, how are you?” Rajan said.
“Good. I am good, God willing.”
“You have the device with you?”
Yisrael nodded. “Of course. You have the payment in full?”
What would happen if they didn’t have the payment? Yisrael saw that his friends from the north had brought a small army with them. Yisrael’s men were outnumbered and outgunned. Badly.
But Rajan quickly put these fears to rest. “Of course we have the money. But first we must open the package to make sure it is the thing we want to purchase.”
He gestured and the first forklift drove past, headed for the payload of the truck. Several men followed behind the forklift.
“It is a heavy steel box and perfectly sealed,” Yisrael said. “There doesn’t seem to be any way to open it.”
Rajan clapped him on the shoulders. It was comradely, but perhaps a touch too hard.
“My brother,” Rajan said. “Don’t you know? When you walk with Allah, there is always a way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
7:20 p.m. West Africa Time (1:20 p.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Far Outskirts of Maiduguri
Borno State, Nigeria
“Who do they think we are?” Ed Newsam said.
The city of Maiduguri was bleak, seemingly comprised of little more than corrugated metal fencing, wooden shacks, and low-slung concrete block buildings. The streets were dusty and hot, and the evening gave no respite from the heat. Stray dogs lay half-starved and half-asleep in the gutters.
There were few, if any, formal businesses. People turned to stare as the open-air Nigerian Army jeep rumbled slowly past, two white men and a giant black man, all in dark jungle camouflage, riding inside.
Paul Dunn was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand working the gear shift. The streets of the city were an obstacle course of adults, barefoot children, animals, crater-style potholes, and random junk. Dunn piloted the jeep expertly through it all. He had been here before.
He shrugged. “They think we’re foreign mercenaries. And that’s basically what we are, right?”
“Anyone going to take a shot at us?”
Dunn shook his head. “Not here. No one is going to take that chance. We could be Russians, or South Africans. Russians have no mercy. South Africans have less than none. If you swing and miss…” Dunn just shook his head again.
Ed was in the front passenger seat, his M79 at his feet. Luke sat in the back, positioned between them. Rifles and grenades shared the bench with him. They had picked up more weapons at the Nigerian military depot where they bought the jeep.
Luke leaned forward. He had talked to Trudy, and heard all about Dunn and his past—at least what Trudy knew about it. It concerned Luke, but it also intrigued him. When Luke confronted him, Dunn had tried to blow off the revelations.
“It’s just how it is,” was one thing he had said. “Africa, man. Things get confused.”
So far, Dunn had been as good as his word, about everything. He knew the lay of the land here. He was resourceful. He knew where he could get his hands on a jeep and more weapons. The transaction had gone as smooth as glass. The village where he said the girls would be—well, Swann seemed to have confirmed that’s where they were.
But Africa wasn’t to blame for Dunn’s personal record. If anything, Dunn had ended up here because this was the only place that would have him.
“Tell me something,” Luke said.
“Shoot.”
“They say you’re a murderer. If I fall asleep at some point, are you gonna try to murder me?”
Dunn’s sharp eyes appeared in the rearview mirror.
“Are you joking?”
Luke shook his head. “No. It’s a real question. I need to trust the people around me. You don’t automatically get the benefit of the doubt.”
Dunn shook his head. He almost laughed. Sort of. He tried a smile, but the smile died. “Man, this is Nigeria. The lies pile up so fast, you need wings to stay above them. They’re running a whorehouse here, and they call me a fornicator? I’ll tell you what. I killed that city councilor. Of course I did. He was Boko. He was funneling city money to them, and the city barely has any money. He was facilitating recruitment, and he was helping them sneak in and out of town. Did I kill that bastard? You bet I did. I killed him twice—harder the second time.”
He drove on in silence for a moment. “I’ve killed a lot of people here—probably more than a hundred. To my knowledge, almost every one of them has been Boko Haram.”
“Almost?” Ed said.
Dunn shrugged. “People have mixed allegiances. Other people just wander into the middle of things. Boko uses human shields. It’s hard to get clean kills sometimes. You’ll see.”
Luke had been in war zones enough to know about the sad facts of life. So had Ed. They both knew how messy things could become. That said, Dunn seemed to have a penchant for messy.
“Armed robberies in Lagos?” Luke said.
“Pimps,” Dunn said. “Drug dealers. Pirates.
I wouldn’t worry about those guys if I were you. They’re big boys, and I need to fund my activities somehow. Until yesterday, I wasn’t on the payroll—remember?”
“Syria?” Luke said. “The Russians?”
“They sent me to kill ISIS. What could be better? I told them before my deployment I didn’t want to be put anywhere I could come into conflict with American troops. They respected that.”
“Mexico?”
Dunn shook his head. “Man, they gave you everything, huh?”
“I’m not sure,” Luke said. “You tell me.”
They were leaving the city, the lights fading behind them. Up ahead, the road opened up, and pure darkness settled in. As Luke watched, a small white mongrel dog darted out of the way of the jeep. Children played with sticks by the side of the road. Far away and to the left, the lights of a distant village twinkled on a black hillside.
Free of obstacles, Dunn began to pick up speed.
“Mexico was a bar fight. I don’t know. I barely remember it. Two college football players, or you know, maybe they were out of school a couple of years. Ex–football players. Americans. They were drunk. I was drunk. It was loud in there. I thought we were cool. I was talking to some girl. Things were looking good. I don’t know what their problem was. Out of nowhere, these guys just started rocking my world. They tagged me pretty good. We went down to the beach and I killed one of them. Surprise! Didn’t mean to do it. It just happened. I stole a boat, got out, and never looked back.”
He hesitated, both hands on the wheel, peering into the oncoming distance.
“I feel kind of bad about that one, actually. But not bad enough to go back and volunteer for Mexican prison.”