Nigeria Meltdown

by Don Pendleton

  “Listen,” he said softly, and as they stood still and silent in the long grass, they could pick up the distant sounds of movement running almost parallel to them. Bolan grinned; it was as he had suspected.

  He had directed his men to split into three pairs and move at angles to the source of the sounds. He kept Habila and Emecheta, and Sosimi and Obinna together, reasoning that the two pairs had an understanding that could be useful. He opted to move with Ayinde and Saro Wiwa, who were not so used to each other.

  The men he had with him were newly combat trained, and they moved through the savanna without leaving any traces. Ahead he could see some movement where the Brotherhood men were moving toward the original map reference, and distant to that, other movements that he hoped were the shadow team. But there was no trace of the two pairs he had just dispatched.

  Suddenly there were joint flurries of activity in the savanna to his left and to his right, with the sounds of close combat, moving grass and one short tap burst of SMG fire before sudden silence.

  Ayinde and Saro Wiwa looked at him questioningly. He shook his head and gestured before them. The movement they had been tracking had momentarily ceased before backtracking on itself. They had been panicked by the attack and were reversing to engage.

  Bolan took a path that would intercept them directly and stepped up the pace. Beside him, the two soldiers fanned out so that they moved away from him and were lost in the grass.

  If one—or both—were of part of the Brotherhood, then now was a dangerous time.

  But there was no time to think about that. His path brought him into line with the men he was tracking. The grass before him cleared, and there were three of them, each with an AK-47. Despite their alerted status, they were still taken by surprise as he burst into them. He was able to take out one gunner with a burst across his chest.

  Even as this man fell, one of his fellows raised his AK before Bolan had a chance to turn and fire. He was saved only by the impulsive behavior of the other man, who flung himself forward, attempting to tackle Bolan with a Tekna knife that he had pulled from its sheath. All he succeeded in doing was placing himself directly in the line of fire, so that he took the AK burst intended for Bolan.

  His attacker might have been dead but could still cause problems. The AK-47 burst he intercepted had propelled him forward and had increased his momentum so that it was all Bolan could do not to tumble to the ground. If the Brotherhood soldier fired through the man on top of him, there was nothing that Bolan could do.

  He braced himself for the impact as he heard another burst. But that was not AK fire, it was from another weapon, and he relaxed as he felt the deadweight removed from him. Saro Wiwa heaved the body to one side, and beyond him Bolan could see Ayinde standing over the dead body of the second Brotherhood soldier.

  All his men were equipped with radio headsets but had maintained a radio silence. Bolan now broke it so that they could report in. All four were available and reported mission completed. Habila, however, expressed concern about another party that was still some way off.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Bolan said, watching the moving trail. He gave a rendezvous point, adding, “Don’t open fire unless I say.” Then, as he moved his two men toward that point, he took out the cell phone and hoped for coverage. Luck was with him, and he texted Ekwense the same coordinates.

  Now sure that they had dealt with all of the enemy that were within range, each part of the team made their way rapidly to the rendezvous point.

  “Major, these men who are on our tail...” Habila began as they came together.

  “Sure—be frosty. They should be with us in a few minutes,” Bolan said, calming the soldier.

  The seven men waited, all except Bolan, with a sense of trepidation, as they could hear the others approach.

  The grass parted, and Ekwense came into view at the head of his team. His eyes widened momentarily as he took in the six men with Bolan, half of whom automatically raised their weapons on sight, despite Bolan’s calming gesture.

  “Your team did a good job out there, Cooper. I’ve seen it,” Ekwense said hurriedly. “Don’t let them practice some more on us.”

  The soldier allowed himself a grin. “Don’t sweat it, Victor. These guys just weren’t expecting you.” He turned to his team. “Gentlemen, this is my backup, just in case we got caught out. We’ve already been fed bad intel and set up. Now we’re twice as strong. Now we know where we need to head. We’re on a tight schedule, but we can do this.”

  “We’ve got a Trojan horse, Cooper,” Ekwense said with a grin, explaining about the truck. And, seeing Bolan’s expression, he added, ‘When I was a boy, it was still a British education. Greek mythology not African legends—who would’ve thought that it would come in useful?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The main headquarters of the Brotherhood of the Eagle was located deep within the forest west of the savanna. For the nerve center of a nationwide organization, it was a surprisingly small compound. Nestled in the heart of the forest and protected from observation by the canopy of trees, any attempts at heat-seeking were thwarted by the area’s wildlife and the insulation of the dense woodlands. Infrared devices would pick out a number of confused images, the animals and the tangled woodlands being a suitable screen.

  Partly built in trees and partly on the floor of the forest, the base consisted of eight buildings. Barracks and communications huts were up in the trees, supported on platforms that were lashed to reinforced tree trunks. On the floor of the forest were the transport and storage facilities, with both food and water, and ordnance was kept secure on ground level from any predators and also from the elements. There were four trucks not counting the one that had been used earlier in the morning, and in total the base housed thirty-one personnel in addition to the party sent out.

  Bolan and his men had no way of knowing all that. They were heading into the unknown and hoping that surprise alone would allow them to gain advantage and gather intel on the run.

  Their hope was that in using the truck they had taken in defeating the attack party, they could get into the base before they were discovered.

  But that might not be as simple as they had hoped.

  * * *

  “WE HAVE ONE big problem,” Bolan said as the two war parties searched the vehicle and gathered the ordnance found there. They had also secured the guns that they had taken off their dead opponents.

  “Too many of us,” Samuel said softly.

  Bolan nodded. “We’ve got twelve men. There were only six, seven if you include the driver.”

  “About that,” Samuel spoke. He indicated the back of the truck. “We could cover the back, try to disguise it that way.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Why would they suddenly do that? See that from far off, and it’d just alert them quicker.”

  “They could be coming back with a greater number if they took some of us prisoner—get their fatigues, dress in them, it could even the numbers.”

  “That could work. We’d have to hope they weren’t looking too closely until we were so close it wouldn’t matter, but—”

  Ekwense had been listening to them, and interrupted. “Matt, we’ve got bigger problems than that. We could just run with that. But we can’t ignore with the fact that we don’t have a destination, and that the Brotherhood will be trying to contact their boys and wondering why they don’t answer. They’ll be sending men out to follow it up, and we’ll be in big shit when that happens.”

  Bolan grinned. “You know, that’s a very good point. We should be worried about that. But maybe we don’t have any reason to worry. Maybe we can turn that to our own advantage.”

  Samuel looked puzzled for a moment, and then a grin of realization spread across his normally grim visage. “Yeah, that’s nice. Use their own action against them, maybe knock a few mor
e off their numbers as we go. Cool.”

  “Is it?” Ekwense asked. “Then for the Lord’s sake explain it to me, because you’ve lost me.”

  * * *

  “LOST THEM? HOW in the name of God can we have lost them?”

  “It’s a large savanna out there,” stammered the soldier standing before Ehurie. They were in a treetop shack, and the soldier kept his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes focused on a spot above his commander’s head as he spoke. Before Ehurie had arrived to take charge, they had answered to General Obusanjo, who had headed back to Lagos when his replacement arrived suddenly and without warning. If this alone had not been an indication of a sea of change, then the way in which Ehurie had imposed his discipline since arrival had caused unrest. Three men had been whipped for supposed offenses that amounted to little more than catching the new commander in a foul mood. Anything was likely to make him snap, and the man standing before him now was far too fond of his own skin to want to risk a brutal and random punishment.

  Ehurie spit out his reply. “A large savanna? What? You think I expect you to see them with your eyes? With binoculars or a telescope? What sort of an idiot do you take me for? It is no wonder Obusanjo has been called back. Things are too slack here.”

  The soldier kept his eyes focused on a point somewhere above Ehurie’s head. As far as he knew, the two men had swapped positions because something that happened in Lagos that made it necessary for the commander to get away quickly. This was perhaps not the moment to bring that up.

  Instead, he said, “Of course, I was not suggesting that, sir. It is just that we have been unable to raise any of the men by radio, and the GPS on the vehicle has been disabled in some way.”

  Ehurie gestured dismissively. “It is more likely that your idiot mechanics have not kept it in good repair. Do you not realize what is going on here, man? The American has been sent to flush us out. Those who are against us believe that our leader commands us from here. They underestimate him, of course, but we are still a major communication center. We are like the middle of the spider’s web, and all strands come from us. The spider never sits near the center. They cannot stop us, but if we are in some way damaged, then it is like severing the spinal cord, stopping the signals for movement.”

  “But, sir, I thought that we had a man—”

  “We cannot rely on that. We must stop him. I want him alive. I want him to know what pain is. He has allies in Lagos, and I want them.” He hit the table in front of him with no little force, making the soldier facing him flinch.

  “Find him!” he yelled. “Now!”

  Ehurie sat back, his normally expressionless face dark with anger as the soldier left hurriedly, intent on sending out a second party of men. He opened the laptop in front of him and clicked on the Skype icon.

  He was not looking forward to calling Lagos, but it had to be done.

  * * *

  BUCHI LEFT HIS house around midday, the pain in his leg deadened by the morphine that Achuaba’s medic friend had given him, but still limping heavily. The wound had been checked and was clean, but it would take some time to heal. Right now, time was something that he did not have. What he did have was Ekwense’s cell phone number and a need for finding out more information from the woman they had taken from the brothel.

  Ekwense had been adamant when they left that all he wanted his friend to do was help the bartender keep the woman secure, fed and watered until they returned. But as far as the frustrated fighter was concerned, she had made a lot of noise and hinted at having information, yet had given them nothing concrete.

  She was Ehurie’s woman. He would not have let her work in the house like the other women. She would have spent most of her time with him. There had to be a lot that she would know about his activities. It just needed to be pulled out of her.

  He would have to be the man to do it. At least this way, he could feel he was being of some use.

  It was a short drive to the bar, which was not yet open. Unlike some, this one did not open through the day, its owners preferring to make money through the night.

  When Buchi pulled up outside the bar, the bartender was emptying barrels down a drain. He turned to greet the limping man.

  “Beer,” he said shortly. “Bastard brewer sells me it bad. Good job I haven’t paid him yet. No chance I will, now.”

  “Will he give you trouble?” Buchi asked, partly thinking of the bartender and partly of any attention being focused on the bar at the wrong time.

  The bartender pulled up his shirt to reveal a Smith & Wesson .38 shoved into his belt. “Let him try.” He grinned. “And you?” he added, indicating Buchi’s leg.

  The fighter shrugged. “It could be worse. Have you checked on our friend this morning?”

  The barman’s grin spread. “Let her sleep in a little, I say. There’s time enough.”

  Buchi nodded. “Let me deal with her. I have a few questions I need to ask her, so it will be better.”

  The barman nodded. “Watch yourself,” he said, indicating Buchi’s wounded leg.

  “Don’t insult me, man.” Buchi waved him away dismissively and walked into the back area of the bar. He prepared a simple meal for her, and took this with some water to where the trapdoor was hidden. He had an idea of how he would proceed. She would not be inclined to say anything without food or water, and he would give her the chance to answer his questions without any coercion. He hoped that she would see sense, bearing in mind what had happened to her. If she did not, then he would have to use force.

  Buchi was a reasonable man. He had been brought up to believe that there were right ways and wrong ways of doing things, like hurting women. The fact that some of the women at the brothel had been caught in the crossfire the night before and killed pained him greatly. He had no desire to add to that.

  But this woman was a different proposition. She had knowledge, had colluded in the misery and death of others. She had to be treated as he would treat a man, as he would treat Ehurie if he had him in the cellar rather than the woman.

  Perhaps this was why he was stupidly distracted as he moved the stove and opened the trapdoor. He expected the woman to still be dazed from the night before. He did not expect her to be waiting in the dark, almost airless room, poised for this moment.

  That the cellar was in darkness worked in her favor. As Buchi pulled open the trapdoor, he could not see clearly into the interior. That allowed her to move quickly out of the dark and at him, clawing wildly. He was taken by surprise and stumbled backward as she cannoned into him. He fell to one side and grabbed wildly, clutching at the woman’s dress. The flimsy material ripped without stopping her progress.

  Buchi yelled, as much in pain as to alert the bartender outside, while the woman made for the door. He scrambled to his feet, feeling wet warmth trickle down his leg as his wound had reopened, the stiffness now joined by the pain of the newest injury, overriding the painkillers in his system.

  As he reached the door, he heard the roar of the Smith & Wesson. The bartender had been in the middle of emptying a barrel, the weight stopping him from leaning forward and grabbing the woman as she passed. Instead, it took him precious time to drop the barrel, which fell at his feet, almost tripping him. His only option was to stop her with a shot, which he snapped off without aim, the bullet flying high and wide.

  Already stumbling, and both shocked and frightened by the blast from behind her, the woman pitched forward, tripping over her own feet and sprawling on the ground. Buchi hobbled across the space between them, gaining ground and wincing with every step. The bartender passed him, having climbed over the barrel in his way, and scooped the woman off the ground before she had a chance to regain her feet. She yelled incoherently and tried to pull against him, but he snarled at her and slapped her backhanded across the face, silencing her.

  Buchi reached them and pu
lled at them both. “Quick, get her in before anyone sees,” he hissed, tugging them toward the bar and looking around hurriedly.

  They manhandled the limp body back into the bar and tossed her into the gaping maw of the cellar opening. Her body hit the floor with a dull thud.

  “What were you thinking, firing like that?” Buchi yelled.

  “Me? You fool, why you let her get out like that?” the bartender returned.

  “She took me by surprise,” Buchi faltered. “I was going to ask her—”

  “Man, I don’t care about that,” the bartender snapped. “Victor asked me to do a job, and you’re making it difficult. If this is what you do to help, then don’t. You just better hope that no one saw what happened there,” he added. “I think we’re lucky, and it’s too early for anyone around here to be up and watching.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE UNLUCKY. Agnes Omanu, who lived three houses down from the converted bar, was up and praying when she heard the commotion and then the shot from the street beyond. Agnes was a God-fearing woman, and the sound of gunfire struck terror into her. But curiosity got the better of her, and she looked out her window, secure in the knowledge that the net curtain and the distance between the yard and the road would be enough to save her from detection. She saw the woman in the road, and the two men lifting her up, one of them hitting her, before dragging her back into the bar.

  Agnes picked up her phone and called the police. She had the number on speed dial and was well known at the local station. Mostly they greeted her with politeness to her face and roars of laughter when the receiver was down. Sometimes they came out, sometimes not.

  This was not one of those times. Her call was answered by Constable Dele Obey, who treated her with the usual mixture of condescension and disinterest, until she mentioned the white woman. Obey took details and then disconnected the call. But this time, rather than laugh and tell the rest of the station what Agnes had told him, he sat thoughtful for a moment and then picked up the phone again, dialing a number that put him through to a sergeant in central Lagos.