"What’s all this?" he smiled. "Did we get gay-married, Farouk? I would have remembered that."
The cake went on the table; petrol and thorium inventories disappearing under it.
"Here," Farouk offered him the knife. "It’s everyone’s anniversary. Three years since Operation Ra."
"Has it been three years already?" he held the knife like he was unfamiliar with it. Perhaps now he was. "It doesn’t seem it’s been that long."
"Quickly," one of the Colonel’s waved him along. "Before the ceasefire is over."
Some laughed, but it sounded tired. Al-Hamdani began to cut - the aroma hit and he closed his eyes. He was a boy again, spending his pocket money at Al-Nouri’s, the bakery. He was eating by the roadside with his friends, watching protesters going to Tahrir Square .
He looked around. There was a lot of staff in the command tent. He started cutting smaller pieces.
"This is excellent," he nibbled a piece. His mouth exploded with flavor. "Who made this?"
"An Abrams driver in 2nd Company," said Farouk. "He was a baker in Alexandria, before he was conscripted. We found fresh dates in an abandoned village. His platoon built an oven out of a gutted Sudanese tank."
"That’s incredible. Can he make Khubz?"[xxxi]
"Of course he can make Khubz. He’s a baker."
"Get him to make us as much as possible. The men will appreciate fresh bread."
"I’ll take care of it. I suppose we should send some cake to our benefactor, too. The UN High Commissioner."
More laughter.
"Lakshmi Rao?" Al-Hamdani wasn’t laughing. "She should be reaching the Atbara camp, soon. Why is Cairo even allowing this? It’s going to be a PR disaster."
"What are we supposed to do?" Farouk scowled. "If the Sudanese fire rockets at us from a refugee camp, we bomb it. It’s quite simple. If they don’t value their own people’s lives, we’re not going to, either."
"But it’s not that simple. Remember, we are the invading army, with the Abrams and the F22s. You forget, the world doesn’t care about our problems."
"Excuse me Brigadier General, but fuck the world," he replied. "They don’t understand what’s at stake. Ethiopia’s dam will kill the Nile, and Egypt.[xxxii] We have the Americans and the Israelis behind us. We don’t need anyone else. Let the Sudanese cry and wail to Rao, and show her dead children. We will sweep them aside and enter Ethiopia, by Ramadan."
Men cheered.
"Are you going to get into trouble Sir?" asked the Major, who had said nothing. "For not capturing the camp in time?"
"No, Major. Central Military High Command is not so crazy to think we could have accomplished that in such a short span. But I am surprised they are giving her access. And the ceasefire to allow her passage, just means more rockets coming down on us, later."
There was the roar of an armored vehicle driving too fast, inside the camp. The officers looked outside as an Oshkosh M-ATV pulled up. Its crown was a ten kilowatt, anti-personnel laser. Two men got out; one had the rank pips of a Major. He strode into the tent uninvited.
"Brigadier-General," he saluted.
"What is it? And who are you?"
"And can we keep your Oshkosh?" asked Farouk. "We’re going to save the Nile, you see."
"Major Qureshi, Central Military High Command," he ignored Farouk. "I have a message for you."
He opened a small valise and handed the Brigadier-General a folder. Al-Hamdani opened it. He lifted out the paper inside, like an archeologist with a papyrus.
"I will need that back when you are done reading it, Sir."
The Brigadier-General frowned. He read the paper, and his frown deepened.
"Here," he handed it back. The major saluted him, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.
"What the hell was that?" asked Farouk.
"Orders. The kind you don’t want to send electronically."
"They’re afraid the Russians will crack our encryption?"
"They’re afraid in fifty years a historian will find it in an archive. We are to prevent the UN High Commissioner from reaching Atbara."
The only sound in the tent was the air conditioning.
"They declared a ceasefire just to let her through!"
"The ceasefire is a sham. Now, no one can say that Egypt denied her access to the camp."
"But we are going to deny access! And they are telling us, just now!"
"No Colonel, we’re not denying her access."
"We’re not?"
"Egypt is not, no. This is a job for our Eritrean friends."
"Your pet Asmaran paramilitaries?" Farouk made a face. "They’re a bunch of raving psychopaths."
"Which is why they will start shelling, during a ceasefire. We will not be blamed."
"Of course we will be blamed. Everyone knows we control them."
"Nothing can be proven," Al-Hamdani shook his finger. "And I don’t think anyone can control a bunch of raving psychopaths, once you give them tanks."
Abu Hamad Toll Road, fifty kilometers North
"High Commissioner, can you tell us why you’re visiting the Atbara camp?"
The reporter’s flak jacket was so large, it looked like she’d drown in it. A heavy belt strapped her waist to her seat, like the rest of the APC’s passengers. She leaned forward, mike in hand. The light on her glasses lit up red to show she was recording.
"Of course, but first some background for your viewers. The Atbara camp is just one of fourteen the UN opened in Sudan, after the start of the water war," Rao, sat across from her, wearing a UN blue helmet. "It has over two hundred thousand refugees. A thousand more are joining it, daily. Resupply is very difficult: all four sides have fired on UN aid flights. The only way is overland, but the roads are often closed by the fighting.
"The current offensive by Egypt and Eritrea has affected the Atbara camp’s access to clean water. This has caused a sanitation crisis. This paired with recent sudden, heavy rains, has caused a cholera outbreak.
"I am going to Atbara to see the situation for myself, and to highlight the plight of these people. Their humanitarian crisis will only grow as Egyptian-allied forces advance deeper into Sudan. The Security Council needs to pressure Egypt to end the offensive, and put in a lasting ceasefire."
"Madam Commissioner, what do you make of the Egyptian military government announcing a unilateral ceasefire to allow you to make this visit?"
"I welcome the move," she said, after a pause. "However, unless the Egyptian government makes serious commitments to protect refugees in this war, and not just those of their allies, then this will only be a hollow gesture."
"And is the UN ready for what might happen if the Egyptians are successful and reach Ethiopia?"
"We are not there yet, but we are planning against the possibility. The war is destabilizing the region as a whole. The longer it lasts, the more militant groups we’ll see emerging, and the more radicalized they will become. The recent massacres of Christians by militants crossing into South Sudan, are evidence of this danger."
"Comissioner Rao, would you say that the US and Russia are responsible for the crisis in East Africa?"
"I do not think there is any point in apportioning blame. However, the US and Russia can influence their partners in this region, to bring them to the negotiation table. If the Security Council was of one mind, then a resolution could be passed. The Nile Waters Agreement of 1959[xxxiii] must be revisited. There are many nations with claims, and these must be deliberated on, peacefully."
"Thank you, Ma’am," the red linked winked out. The reporter seemed to relax.
"That was great, Commissioner," Anjana gave a thumbs up. The reporter nodded.
"You think so?"
"Oh yes. You present very well. I can’t wait to see you once we reach the camp."
"Hey," the reporter looked to Anjana, "Do you know how much longer it will be?"
"A couple of more hours. We just have to pass through one more town, a place named Berber."
"Yes. It’s Egyptian controlled."
The reporter made a face. "Well, you could say that. Asmaran Christians took Berber last week."
Anjana shot Rao a look.
"We’ll be fine," Rao waved her concerns away. "If anything, we’ll be safer."
Anjana nodded. After a few moments, she spoke again.
"Commissioner, do you mind if I ride up front with the vanguard? It’s really cramped in here."
"Not at all child. You’re so tall; this must be killing you. Just check with the lieutenant and see if it’s alright."
Berber, Twenty five kilometers South
"You were right, Arab."
Sand-grimed men in civvies and flak jackets cleaned their weapons. An ancient T-62’s crew sat outside it, drinking tea and talking. Shaded by a mud brick wall, a sniper sat reading the Bible.
The dark sunglasses leaning against the Land Rover looked up and smiled. He wore Egyptian combat fatigues and a flak jacket. He carried a large briefcase.
"They just sent the order to begin shelling the toll road," continued the speaker. Age had furrowed his face and salted his beard. "The UN convoy is to be discouraged."
Beside him was a younger man wearing ammo belts and an RPK LMG. The light machine gunner frowned openly at the smiling Arab.
"That’s what they have to tell you, Grebremichael. No Egyptian officer can say any more than that."
"You are no Egyptian," said the LMGer, pointing his finger. "Why should we do this for you?"
Gebremichael held up his hand to his junior.
"I never said I was," said Sunglasses. "And what’s in this briefcase certainly isn’t, either. My people and yours have the same enemy here: the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. Her stance against single-community orbitals has blocked many Christian evacuations. This Western diversity model she imposes in space, is causing great suffering down here.
"Bazen," he gestured to the LMGer. "Did you choose this war? No. The Nile nations have gone to war, forcing their neighbors to pick sides. Right now Sudan’s militias are raiding South Sudan, killing and enslaving Christians. Rao has repeatedly blocked moves to evacuate those threatened towns to the E-series orbitals. Now, what happens when those militias begin attacking Eritrea? Well?"
Bazen said nothing.
"The other reason, is the money. If you agree to kill Lakshmi Rao, then I will pay you the advance. The rest on completion. You need funds, and your émigrés in the US and Italy can only give you so much. Gentlemen, her convoy is on its way. I will respect your decision. However, now that decision needs to be made."
"No," said Bazen.
"Yes," said Gebremichael. "But you must pay us a lot more. I want double."
"Double?"
"Yes. I will respect your decision, but now that decision needs to be made."
The Arab laughed. "Alright. It is agreed." He opened the Land Rover door and put the briefcase on the seat. He lifted up the lid, revealing a computer. He booted it up and he logged on. A donkey cart drove by, its rider a sun baked farmer. One of the tank crew belched, loudly.
"Could you confirm receipt?" the Arab said at last, closing the briefcase.
Gebremichael nodded to Bazen, who pulled out a satphone and stepped away. Words in Tigrinya passed into microwaves. A few minutes later he returned, his bearing changed.
"We’ve received the crypto currency," he said. "Ten million."
Gebremichael smiled and faced the Arab.
"She’ll be dead in two hours. Thank you for your business."
Berber, two hours later
"The rear of the convoy has entered the town," said the man with the two-way radio. "Their vanguard should be coming down the road, now Sir."
Unpainted, mud brick buildings lined the dirt road. Crouching behind walls and on roofs were well-armed militiamen. Their keffiyeh-wrapped faces peered, rifles held ready. Behind a tree, a rocketeer and a loader were checking their gear. They stopped and looked expectantly at Bazen.
The growl of engines were heard.
Bazen put down his light machine gun and looked through his binoculars. Two open-top, Mengshi-pattern Humvees had just come into view. They were packed with Chinese QBZ-111[xxxiv] riflemen in digital, desert camo. Goggled gunners stood at 12.7mm machine guns, scanning. Sitting in the back, one person stood out.
"She’s in the vanguard!" he said excitedly. "Fire!"
The rocket team mates looked at each other.
"But Bazen," the radioman was still holding the antiquated receiver, "Captain Gebremichael told us to wait for, and target the personnel carriers."
"She’s not in an APC, she’s right there in the second humvee! It’s carrying an Indian woman."
"But Bazen – "
"No buts, fire! We kill her, and this is over!"
"So the UN chick is pretty hot."
Sergeant Zhou scanned the mud brick buildings along the road. Broken windows stared back at him, black and sightless. Berber had been wretched even before the war claimed it. Perhaps it had been a mercy killing.
"A real white swan," said one of the men in the back. He was sitting next to the High Commissioner’s aide. She looked out the window, oblivious.
Private Wu at the wheel, peered into the rearview mirror. "Gao, I think you mean a brown swan."
"I should ask to be her bodyguard," said Gao in the back. "That refugee camp is just a big, jihadi, training ground. Pretty girl like her shouldn’t go wandering around without a guard."
"Don’t be stupid," said Wu. "She doesn’t know you exist. You’ll be sitting in the cold on a bench a long time if you think she’ll ever notice you."
"I think someone can’t eat grapes but says they’re sour."
"Don’t bother her Private," snapped Sergeant Zhou. "And never assume people around us can’t understand Mandarin, especially diplomats."
"Yes Sir."
The girl kept looking out the window. She frowned suddenly and leaned towards the glass.
"Hey," she began in English, "I think there’s – "
The Mengshi flipped.
Zhou’s ears rang from the explosion. He was on top of Wu, who was coughing and gasping for air. The cabin was filled with dust and smoke. Someone was screaming, again and again.
"Everybody out!"
Zhou kicked open the door and climbed out. Automatic weapons clattered, the Mengshi rang loudly with each hit. Zhou dropped to the ground and braced his QBZ-111. Beside him was Private Chen, the machine gunner, dead. Muzzles flashed at Zhou from rooftops.
"Dragon One this is Silk One, over. Dragon One, are you receiving?"
He gave up on the helmet’s radio. He tried the infrared. Immediately, yellow and red blobs lit up all around them.
Private Wu climbed out without his weapon, still coughing.
"Get down," Zhou stood and pulled him down. "Are you injured?"
"I don’t think so, Sir!"
Zhou shoved his rifle into Wu’s arms. "Then shoot something!"
"Yes Sir!"
Zhou climbed back up the vehicle. Bullets passed over his head, optimistic but untrained.
"Everyone conscious in there?" he shouted.
"I’m okay Sir," yelled Gao. "But the VIP, I think she’s hurt."
"Anything broken?" below, Wu opened up with the 111.
"I don’t know, Sir."
"Let’s get her out of there."
Gao carefully picked up the aide. She was limp in his arms, her white blouse stained red. Zhou pulled her out – her eyes had rolled back into her head.
Wu cried out as a rocket demolished the house behind them.
"Could do with some more shooting from our side!"
"Where the fuck is our side?" yelled Gao.
"Just get your gun and get out! I can’t drop her on the ground like this!" More bullets arced past Zhou.
Gao raised up a Type 91 marksman’s rifle, and tossed it out. Then he climbed and fell on Chen’s body. Wordless, he reached up to Zhou. The Serge
ant lowered the aide to him.
A hammer slammed into his back, throwing him off the Mengshi. He landed face first, the dirt scouring him. He spat sand and felt a burning in his back. He reached back and dug with his fingers.
"You alright, Sir?" Gao held the limp aide in his arms, like a frat boy rapist.
Zhou pulled out a gleaming, deformed pellet. "Just my pride. You want to show that rocket team what you division medal is worth?"
Gao grinned, and picked up the Type 91 laser. He braced against the wreck, switched to infrared, and began firing. One shot, aim. One shot, aim. Again and again, silent and recoilless.
Zhou checked her wrist and throat for a pulse. It was strong. She had gashed her shoulder, it was bleeding generously. Zhou pulled out a tube from his webbing and bit the top off. He forced the wound shut, and around it squeezed the tube. A black cream came out, and began setting immediately. The bleeding stopped.
"What hit us?" yelled Wu. He tracked a man running between buildings, and fired.
"I think it was a rocket!"
"Why not just use an IED, and kill us all?"
"Maybe they want prisoners!"
Wu stopped for a moment and glanced back.
"No one is getting beheaded today, Private!"
"Yes Sir!"
He left the aide and began pulling the Mengshi’s machine gun from the wreckage. The QJZ-90[xxxv] heavy machine gun was an older design, but in the PLA you didn’t fuss about hand-me-downs. He propped it over the Menghsi, and aimed.
Six hundred rounds a minute, poured into the attackers. Zhou looked behind, at the second Mengshi charging forward. Its gunner coolly aimed, tearing up mud walls like paper. The attackers fled.
"About time," said Wu. He noticed he’d been shot in the leg, and swore.
The doors opened and Chinese peacekeepers emerged and fanned out. Laser sights cut red lines into the air. Lowered HUD visors swept the battleground.
The Hundred Gram Mission Page 10