by Vince Milam
At the reconnoiter spot, we edged up a small ravine. Marcus and Catch scanned with the night-vision binoculars we’d purchased stateside.
“Movement toward the south,” Catch said. His voice through the earpiece was matter-of-fact.
Thirty seconds later, Marcus announced, “A string of donkeys and women and kids. Headed south back toward Arawala.”
“Same pattern as Garsila,” Catch added.
The Janjaweed encampment had supper prepared by the women from the nearby village. As at Garsila, they’d trek into the Janjaweed hideout twice a day—breakfast and the evening meal. After serving and cleanup, they made their way to their own enclave and left the male fighters isolated. Whether due to religion or custom or a combination of both, it worked to our benefit. No worries about collateral damage. From now until our attack, the massif was occupied solely with Janjaweed warriors. All good.
“Let’s gather,” Marcus said, sliding back down the ravine.
We joined him. This was the demarcation point. Bo would go his own way, the route and position his business and no questions asked. Catch would ease north and ascend the ravine he’d selected. Marcus and I would trek up our choice of ravines. Then wait for daylight.
As we bunched together, Catch approached Bo from the rear and threw an arm around his upper chest, pulling him close.
“I’m not gonna tell you to avoid doing weird shit,” he said into Bo’s ear. “’Cause that’s what you do.”
“I play to my strengths, oh bearish one.”
Under the moon and starlight, Bo’s teeth flashed.
“But what I am gonna tell you is don’t get your strange self killed. Remember, I’ve got your back.”
“As always and in so many ways, my brother. My personal guardian angel, albeit one whose scratchy beard messes with my well-groomed coif.”
Marcus eased toward Bo’s front while Catch maintained his grip. Marcus turned his camo ball cap, bill toward the back. In an act unseen prior to this moment, he placed a hand behind Bo’s neck and went forehead-to-forehead with him.
“Communicate,” he said. “Let us know what’s going on, what you see and sense. That includes during the shitstorm. And keep your head down. I expect to hear tales when this is over. Bo tales.”
I pressed against their sides. My blood brothers. One last hurrah, a final curtain call. The possibility one or all of us wouldn’t make it was a painful mental burr.
“Don’t you hesitate calling for help,” I said into Bo’s face. “I’ll come running.”
“And if the universal hand plucks me or any of us from this realm, we’ll meet on the other side.”
“Don’t say that,” Catch said. “Bad juju.”
“You’re isolated too, Catch,” Marcus said. “Communicate, dammit. You’re perched on your own private Alamo, and if need be we’ll attack the enemy at your position. Communicate.”
“Roger that.” Catch released Bo and readjusted his kit. He carried the sniper rifle and had slung the HK assault rifle across his back. “Right. Shoot straight and true, men.”
I wouldn’t separate from the others without a final word. This had been my call, my trigger point. I’d exposed my brothers to more than extreme risk. Yeah, they’d insisted on joining, but the weight of my previous actions screamed for a stake in the ground. A final declaration.
“Alright, my brothers,” I said. “Here’s where we end it. Finish it once and for all.” I paused, heart aching for my brothers, and shared an eye-lock with each man. “Godspeed. Now let’s wipe those bastards out.”
Chapter 32
I performed a final equipment check and delivered a tight nod toward Catch. He returned the same, shot me a quick fist bump, and turned toward the north and his selected ravine. His private stand. A final Bo goodbye proved futile. He had already gone. Vanished into the night. Marcus shrugged my way and with a nod signaled it was time to climb. We did.
Our ravine, thick with desert brush, was at a forty-five-degree upward angle. Several hundred yards above us, the top. We halted midway and hunkered down. No point risking detection until attack time. Marcus hand-signaled he would catch forty winks. We had a long wait, and Marcus not whispering his desire for sleep was likely based on personal reasons. His voice would be picked up via radio by the other two. I didn’t blame him for wanting rest and understood his desire to keep it between us. It had been one helluva trip.
An hour before dawn, we crept the final stretch of ravine. The spread-out camp remained silent. As we crested, a narrow split in the rock walls led to the main trail traversing the Janjaweed stronghold. Marcus and I squeezed against rock rubble at our entrance, hidden and protected from any passersby. I considered Catch. He would have climbed his rocky pinnacle, stretched on his belly, sniper rifle at his shoulder and assault rifle within reach. He’d have the latter on full automatic. Just in case. Bo would have made his way to the encampment’s other side and was now hidden, tight, above near-vertical walls with the desert floor below. We’d wait for his word, his actions. As always, he’d draw the first salvo of enemy fire.
As the sun, still below the horizon, cast dim light across the arena, stirring could be heard among the Janjaweed. We had committed the photos of Musa Kibir and his three lieutenants to memory. More than memory—an absorption. We’d recognize them in a heartbeat. Showtime approached.
“Tell us, Catch,” Marcus whispered, the sound soft and flat in my ear.
“All good. Except for an itchy finger. You?”
“All good.”
We wouldn’t attempt contact with Bo. High odds he hid within a few feet of an enemy’s tent. Or inside the thing. No point asking for a response from him, even a whisper. But the exchange between Catch and Marcus would have provided him with assurance we were ready.
Fifteen minutes passed, camp sounds—muted early a.m. voices—increased among the clan.
“Louie two.”
Bo. He’d identified one of the lieutenants. We’d designated them Louie one, two, and three.
“Louie three, here.”
Catch. His sniper scope had identified another prime target. Sixty seconds later, Bo whispered again.
“Big fish.”
Musa Kibir. Bo had sighted him.
“Initiate?” Bo asked, no doubt with his rifle sight locked on Kibir’s chest.
Marcus and I exchanged glances. Marcus would make the call.
“Negative. Wait one.”
Seconds ticked by, then minutes. None of us second-guessed Marcus, though things could kick off any second if Bo sensed he’d been spotted. I drew my legs underneath my body, prepared to spring into action. Attack. Marcus would follow.
“Louie one.”
Bo again. That was it. Kibir and his three lieutenants were here. All the fish in the frying pan.
“Your call, Bo,” Marcus whispered.
Bo would kick it off however he best saw fit. It didn’t take long. A grenade explosion sounded along the primary path and echoed off the smaller warren path walls. I leapt up and charged north. Marcus would ensure no dangers presented from the south, at my back. A second grenade blast, then a third. Screams and yells and cries covered the massif’s top. Without doubt, I grasped what Bo was doing. The crazy SOB was dashing past tents and tossing grenades into them. He counted on surprise and operational insanity for success. And exposed himself to the entire encampment.
Men scrambled from offshoot paths and turned toward the battle sounds, ignoring two old operators approaching at their backs. Too bad for them. I slammed the brakes and cut down three, then four as more dashed from tents and under tarps, emerging onto the main path. They screamed orders as it became evident they were under full-scale attack. I continued advancing and bolted from outcrop to boulder to the path’s sharp turns.
Ahead, a wild firefight. Bo engaged with his HK on full automatic interspersed with the random roar of another grenade blast. The Janjaweed’s AKs ripped fire in his direction. Or his perceived direction. Hard to say bu
t a tenuous position at best for my best buddy.
Near my rear, Marcus fired, full automatic. A Janjaweed warrior or three had emerged from their narrow crevice home after I’d passed. Marcus took them out. I paused behind a boulder and cut down two more headed toward the heart of the camp. My peripheral vision picked up movement, and before I could draw a bead on the man raising the AK to his shoulder, half his head disappeared. Catch, doing what he did best.
I considered switching to full auto as Marcus had but kept my weapon on semiautomatic. I dropped a near-empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. Sprinted right and pressed against a rock wall alongside another thin crack where a pathway entered. Within, voices yelled as men prepared to enter the battle. I pulled the pin on a grenade, snuck a peek down the narrow walkway, and was greeted with a hail of bullets. I ducked back, stone chips blasting my neck and chest. I tossed the grenade into their midst, and seconds later the explosion’s blast blew out the narrow opening.
Fire and maneuver. Keep up the pressure. I kept moving forward, knowing Marcus had my immediate back while Catch popped every available target. Ahead, Bo alone, fighting like a berserker.
Hang in there, bud. The cavalry is working its way toward you. Aim, fire, move—repeat and repeat again, always advancing, attacking. With resistance increasing as we approached the encampment’s prime gathering ground, it was clear we faced a large force. At least three dozen of the bastards, maybe four or five dozen. A buttload, any way you shake it. Move, fire, move. Gotta keep moving, gotta attack. Static firefights worked to the Janjaweed’s advantage as they knew these thin trails weaving among the rock outcrops. Given enough time they’d bushwhack us. Forward, move, fire, move. Bullets sang their deadly whine past my body, past my head, ricocheted off boulders and stone walls—each and every one a minor distraction as I pushed ahead.
The air filled with the pungent smell of burnt gunpowder and blood and death. Screamed orders from the Janjaweed, war cries and cries of pain. Chaos and flashed movement and booming, deafening nonstop gunshots. The resistance was getting thick, hot. Many assumed defensive positions and no longer scrambled and ran, which had offered open-ground shots. Others continued to dash from the small creviced entrances of their personal campsites, firing as they ran, attacking us.
Marcus fired again at my back. A relief—he still stood. Bo stood as well. His HK continued barking with controlled bursts, although they clearly had him holed-up, the AK blasts nonstop ahead.
I’d fought my way at least two hundred yards. Blood dripped down my face—rock chips from too-close bullets hitting the boulders I fired behind. I caught a quick glimpse of Catch’s perch, marked as bullets pounded a tight pinnacle’s summit. Bo still ahead and isolated. More rabbit-ways, more narrow paths converged with the main trail—each with a Janjaweed fighter blasting away at either me or Marcus.
I switched to full auto and soon added to the trail of spent ammo magazines in my wake. Marcus, the same. Maintained tight three-shot bursts, both at glimpses of running figures and as personal cover fire that allowed me forward movement.
“Little help.”
Marcus, voice calm, the crack of his weapon as background noise when he spoke. I dropped behind a body-sized boulder and checked my back trail. I’d moved too far, too fast. Left him behind. He was hunkered inside a small crevice, body flat, as Janjaweed fighters between us popped from their hiding spots and blasted automatic fire his way. They failed to look my way, at my exposed position, because I hadn’t fired toward them. That changed damn fast.
“Roger.”
I switched back to semiauto and aimed sure kill shots. Two, three, five fell. With a sudden recognition of a new player, many of them focused on me. Wild shots ripped across the sandy trail, while others pounded the boulder at my back. I whipped aim point toward the closest fighter who’d belly-dropped and slammed a new AK magazine home. Before either of us could fire, he caught a bullet to his forehead. Catch again. My burly brother had heeded Marcus’s request for help and shot after single shot, two seconds apart, ripped into Janjaweed bodies. His Dragunov sniper rifle boomed a sharper, more intense retort as he picked off the enemy. I joined with my own controlled shots, taking down several more. Marcus, freed from intense fire from multiple directions, joined the shooting gallery. Thirty seconds later, the space between Marcus and me became littered with dead and dying Janjaweed. He scrambled upright, shot me a tight nod, and dashed my way to continue providing close-in support.
Bullets continued smacking the other side of my boulder—the enemy ahead focused on my position.
“Talk to me, Bo!” I said. His response would dictate whether to continue the controlled attack or charge right at the enemy.
“The dance floor is packed, my brother. Ammo is becoming an issue.”
His second statement was evidenced as his HK switched to semiauto fire. A cacophony of full-auto AK cracks seventy yards ahead, around a bend in the main pathway, were answered with single shots. Chaos and gun blasts and screams ruled the moment.
Marcus flew in my direction and flopped down in the sand alongside me. Not a helluva lot of room for us both, and there didn’t need to be. I was on the attack. I ripped a grenade from my web vest. He grabbed two from his. They were our version of covering fire as bullets continued to thwack the boulder’s other side or whine a ricochet off the stone’s top or plow sandy mini-trenches along either side of us.
Then bad news sounded. Big time bad news. An RPG explosion somewhere ahead. A rocket-propelled grenade. Oh shit.
Chapter 33
The last thing we wanted to encounter. Russian-made and distributed worldwide as a one-person wrecking crew, RPGs fired a ten-pound explosive grenade capable of covering a several-hundred-yard distance. That reach wasn’t needed here. A direct hit wasn’t required either—the kill radius was ten yards in open ground. Here the walls and boulders reduced the effect, but when one went off, deadly shrapnel and rock chips flew. Accuracy hadn’t been a priority for the SOBs we fought anyway, and RPGs fit their fighting style. They’d rip off AK fire on full automatic and augment that with an RPG or three fired in our general direction. Son of a bitch.
At the moment, they fired RPGs at Bo, ahead and hidden from Marcus and me by a tight bend in the trail where a rock outcrop extended, cutting the trail width to a few feet. Behind the outcrop, the enemy positioned and fired our way. We had to fight past it and attack the rear of the fighters attacking Bo.
“Status?” Marcus asked in the radio.
“Shitty and getting worse,” Catch said.
“Ugly and grim,” Bo replied.
Marcus and I exchanged tight nods, pulled pins, and tossed grenades as far forward as possible. At their explosion, I took off.
Two, maybe three seconds post-grenade blast before they’d pop their heads up and fire again. My attack window. I hauled ass. Soft sand kicked up with each sprinted step, adrenaline meter in overdrive. Thirty yards ahead, a narrow crevice on the left. It would afford a fire position toward those behind the outcrop. Maybe.
The last five steps were joined with the bee-buzz of high-velocity bullets ripping past me and striking the rock wall as I flew past. The day’s first-light clarity was startling—no glare, details in stark relief. A hyper-drive mental state as rock chips and fighters firing moved in slow motion.
I dove into the narrow crevice headfirst. A good thing as an enemy fighter had already positioned himself there. I slammed into him and we fell, me on top. He started grappling as our rifles were pinned between us, chest to chest. Screw grappling. While he struggled, I slapped my holster and jerked the 9mm pistol from its hold. An inches-away headshot ended it.
A quick glance past him. The crevice extended for six or seven steps, open at the end. And the end marked a near-vertical drop to the valley floor below. Another nearby grenade explosion. Marcus, giving me an opportunity to sight the enemy. I scrambled to my feet, pressed against the north wall, and checked my line of fire. The jagged rock outcrop—three or
four feet high—jutted against the main trail, pinching it and creating a narrow pass-through. Behind the outcrop, Janjaweed warriors, number unknown. What was known is the SOBs had now taken an uncomfortably keen interest in my position, only twenty paces away. Bullets slapped and whined against rock inside my own private Alamo. Past them and toward the right was the main encampment where Bo, I prayed, still stood. Relief came at the sound of a single shot from his HK.
I ripped shots toward the enemy heads firing at me, striking several. They were quickly replaced. Standing, more exposed, was my lone option. I needed height to procure my whack-a-mole targets.
Another RPG round exploded around the curve. Bo wouldn’t last long under those conditions. The firing and noise and screams were nonstop. These fighters had an ammo cache that showed no signs of emptying. Then more bad news.
“The bastards are scaling walls around me,” Catch growled into the mic. “Gotta go to the assault rifle.”
His statement was reinforced with the sound of automatic fire from high to my left. He was under direct assault and fired short bursts as Janjaweed fighters climbed toward his position. No more sure-death fire from Catch, covering our backs. The battle had entered a critical juncture. We were dead men unless I could get past the outcrop, fight my way forward, and attack Bo and Catch’s assailants from their rear. I prayed Marcus was able to follow and provide covering fire.
“Ammo critical. Down to the pistol and a couple of grenades in short order, my brothers.”
Bo, making a last stand, his voice edged with grit and concern. Then it got worse. A short distance behind the outcrop a fighter stood, RPG on his shoulder. He didn’t aim right, toward Bo. He aimed upward, to his left. Catch’s perch. I cut him down, and his body slipped from sight. Firing intensified into my protective slit as I ducked back, ejected an ammo magazine, and slammed a new one home. Only two full mags left. How many of these fighters were there? I stepped toward the opening again in time to see another enemy shouldering his fallen comrade’s RPG. He fired it. Upward.