An Australian officer, Lieutenant Aden Bishop, rode in the front of the Land Rover next to the driver, a young Sierra Leone soldier. Behind him, a senior UN officer, an Indian Colonel reclined in the back seat. Although he was in command of the mission, he was content to let Bishop take charge. As a staff officer, Colonel Kapur had only volunteered for the short-notice tasking to impress the UN Military Commander. Usually he preferred to remain in Sierra Leone’s capital, Freetown, relaxing in the air-conditioning of the UN Headquarters.
Trailing the four-wheel drive, the Bedford truck carried ten Indian UN soldiers perched on its hard wooden benches. Well-armed and enthusiastic, the infantry’s excellent discipline made up for their limited training. Clad in their heavy khaki uniforms and light blue berets, the Peacekeepers silently endured the stifling heat of the canvas-topped truck, the ancient suspension amplifying every bump.
The diesel engines of the convoy bellowed as the drivers pushed them hard, climbing the slippery track through the highlands. Native birds were startled from the trees and larger animals crashed through the heavy undergrowth to escape the noisy intruders. Every few kilometers the two vehicles passed small villages unmarked on the map.
Bishop squinted as the morning sun streamed through gaps in the thick canopy, raising the humidity to oppressive levels. He removed his UN beret to wipe his brow and checked the map. The young Australian officer struggled to navigate in the dense jungle; the huge trees that punched up through the shadowy undergrowth filled the sky with a wall of greenery, blocking out the view and making it impossible to identify any useful landmarks.
As they drove past yet another isolated village, Bishop’s driver pointed out a cluster of ramshackle huts. “Sir, my grandfather was born there.” Chickens scratched in the mud around one of the rusted corrugated iron walls. Looking across at the Lieutenant the driver smiled. “I know this area well, Sir. I won’t get you lost.”
“I’m not worried about that, Erasto,” Bishop said as he looked up from the map. “I’ve no doubt you know your way around. I’m more worried about how far the militias are from the camp.” His brow furrowed as his thoughts turned to another refugee camp at Songo. A rogue RUF militia had attacked it only two weeks earlier and a UN patrol had watched helplessly as they hacked their way through the refugees. The Peacekeepers’ orders forbade them to fire except in self-defence.
After the incident Bishop had been sent to the camp to provide a detailed report. Over a hundred refugees had been maimed or slaughtered; the smell of the rotting corpses was still fresh in his mind.
The young driver continued. “Well, usually many RUF in this area but now most have gone.”
“Most?”
“Yes, Sir. Some are still here but not many. Most have gone back to their villages. Only some criminals remain, but they will be afraid of us.”
Bishop was skeptical. He knew most of the drug-fuelled militias wouldn’t be deterred by a truckload of infantry. To make matters worse the team was babysitting a ranking UN officer, a tempting target for kidnapping.
Colonel Kapur lent forward to tap Bishop on the shoulder. “You can tell the young Private not to worry; a section of infantry is more than enough to deal with a handful of criminals.”
Bishop clenched his jaw, kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and ignored him. The sheer arrogance of the Colonel disgusted him; the man wouldn’t directly address the Private who was their full-time driver. Below his status to talk to an enlisted soldier, and a native one at that.
Kapur continued, “This is your first real mission, is it not Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Sir, that’s correct,” Bishop responded curtly.
“Well, I’ve served with the UN a number of times. I have also led missions against the rebels in Kashmir. Considering your inexperience you are very lucky that I chose to come on this mission.”
“Very lucky, Sir.“
The Colonel took it as a compliment, sat back in his seat and began studying his own map.
What a cock, thought Bishop. This man clearly has more experience drinking coffee than commanding soldiers.
The overweight officer even had the audacity to wear his dress uniform in the field. The buttons on the sweat-stained shirt strained against the man’s protruding belly. With all his ribbons and braid he looked more like a bandmaster than a soldier.
Despite the presence of the pompous Colonel, Bishop was enjoying his first deployment. He appreciated the multinational aspects of working with the UN and as a junior officer he was gaining valuable experience working in a high-threat environment.
The dangers that lurked in the surrounding terrain weren’t obvious as the two vehicles made their way through the thick green vegetation of Kilimi National Park. As they passed through villages, young men and women spilled out of their huts, happily waving at the passing soldiers. It was only their handless limbs and scarred bodies that hinted at the inhumane crimes that had occurred here and the threat still posed by the roaming militias.
The UN has failed these people, reflected Bishop.
A young boy grinned at him, waving vigorously as the Land Rover crawled past. Leaning against a crude crutch, the boy’s right leg was missing from the knee down. The soldier in Bishop wanted to hunt down and tear out the throats of the animals who had done this, but the UN rules of engagement forbade him. In the back of his mind he doubted his ability to follow this directive. What kind of man could stand by and watch these RUF bastards hack the limbs from children, he rationalized.
Bishop checked his map again. The convoy had almost reached its destination. They had encountered no sign of recent militia activity. Was it possible the RUF fighters were actually abiding by the guidelines laid down in the ceasefire? Bishop remained wary. Many of the RUF were no more than criminals and a refugee camp was easy pickings for heavily armed thugs.
The road narrowed even further. They inched forward over a simple log bridge and continued up into the highlands. Thick red clay caked the tires and the drivers struggled to keep the vehicles from sliding off the crude path and down the steep embankment into the green abyss below.
Bishop looked up as the Land Rover slowed. Spotting something ahead, the driver dropped down a gear. In the distance two armed men were standing in front of a battered white pickup parked across the track. A third man was manning a heavy machinegun mounted on the truck.
“Looks like trouble, Sir.” The young driver sounded worried.
“It’s OK, Erasto. It’s probably just some of the local militia,” Bishop reassured the nervous youth. “Pull over and we’ll sort this out.” The UN officer was only a few years older than his driver, but his confidence and training gave him a leadership presence that belied his years.
They slowed to a halt. Bishop immediately opened the Land Rover’s battered door and stepped down. His boots sank into the mud. A cloud of mosquitoes swarmed up from septic pools of water. He swatted them casually, the mud and insects barely registering. His mind focused on the potential threat posed by the armed men.
The sound of squelching boots behind him drew his attention and he turned to face the Indian section commander.
Corporal Mirza Mansoor addressed Bishop. “Doesn’t look good Sir.”
“Hmm, I’m not real happy about this, Mirza,” Bishop replied quietly, his hand instinctively moving to the holster on his hip.
“A very dangerous position, Sir,” Mirza said matter of fact. The Indian was calm, his hard Asiatic features displaying no emotion.
“Yeah, we’re wedged in pretty tight. If they arc up with that machinegun, we’re cactus,” Bishop muttered. Beads of perspiration ran down his face.
“Do you think they are RUF?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Could be locals.”
“Well, Sir, whoever they are, they don’t look friendly.”
“They’re certainly not a reception party, that’s for sure,” Bishop agreed.
“What do you want us to do?”
From the back seat
of the Land Rover, Colonel Kapur interrupted, speaking through the open window. “Corporal, the RUF wouldn’t dare come into the exclusion zone during the cease-fire. These men here must be locals and there are only three of them. We will simply approach and discuss our access to the Kilimi camp.”
Bishop glanced down at the senior officer and nodded. “Mirza, the Colonel might be right about this lot.”
Mirza raised an eyebrow.
Bishop continued. “Odds are they’re just a local militia group trying to make a few dollars by charging the locals passage. As long as we don’t provoke them we should be able to bribe our way through the checkpoint.”
Mirza pointed up the road at the vehicle. “Do you want me to take some of the men up there and find out what they want?”
The Colonel made to speak but Bishop interrupted him. “No, the Colonel and I will go talk to them.”
“OK, Sir, but we will be ready.”
“Good. Tell your men to stay with the vehicles but be prepared to follow us up. The last thing we want to do is provoke a bunch of trigger-happy militia.” He pointed out their current location on the map. “If they won’t let us through, the camp is only on the other side of this crest. We can always double back and approach along one of these small tracks with a recon party.” Bishop trusted Mirza. Everything about the smaller man inspired confidence, from his well-pressed uniform and immaculately cleaned rifle to his steady, almost icy demeanor. Even the thin moustache was fitting; he was a born warrior and Bishop had no doubt the blood of India’s fiercest warriors ran strong in his veins.
“Understood, Sir.” Mirza gave a nod and headed back to his section. The other nine soldiers had already dismounted and were quietly dispersed in the dense foliage either side of the track.
Bishop opened the rear door of the Land Rover and Colonel Kapur reluctantly pried his rotund body from the back seat. A twitch appeared at the corner of the senior officer’s eye as he stepped into the mud. “It might be better for me to stay in the vehicle,” he said. “We don’t want to appear overly intimidating to these men.”
No chance of that, thought Bishop. You look like the Indian version of Elton John. “Should be OK, Sir. They’ll probably respect an officer of your rank.”
“Yes, good point, Lieutenant,” the senior officer replied unconvincingly, adjusting the beret perched on his balding, perspiring head.
They walked steadily uphill towards the checkpoint, two figures in stark contrast. The corpulent Colonel in dress uniform waddled behind Bishop’s athletic frame clad in distinctive Australian combat fatigues.
As they drew closer, Bishop wasn’t surprised to see the gunmen were only teenagers. He knew they had probably been forced into the militia as child soldiers.
They were all wearing grubby, torn jeans and sported the usual talismans and charms to ward off bullets. He smiled grimly as he noticed one of them wearing a bright red life jacket over his bare torso; some of the Africans had strange ideas regarding protective equipment.
The tallest of the boys was leaning against the hood of the vehicle, a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. He waited until the approaching men were only a few meters away, then jerked upright, hefted his rifle and gestured to his comrades. The smaller boy who was casually cradling a rifle, stepped forward and slowly raised his hand for the UN officers to stop. The third swivelled the heavy machinegun towards them from the back of the rusted pick-up.
The two Peacekeepers stopped only a few paces away. Bishop was close enough to notice their eyes were glazed. He nervously slid his hand to the grip of the Browning 9mm nestled against his hip. It was the norm for UN officers to only carry handguns, but faced with three heavily armed gunmen, Bishop wished he’d insisted on being issued a rifle. He carefully positioned himself a few paces back from the Colonel, slightly out of the immediate firing line, aware that drugs and alcohol could result in unpredictable behavior.
A sideways glance at the battered Toyota pick-up caused Bishop’s stomach to lurch. Jammed onto the spike of a snapped side view mirror was a severed human head. Flies crawled into the open eyes and a black bloated tongue protruded between decaying lips. The putrid smell assaulted the young Lieutenant’s senses and he struggled to keep his composure, the taste of bile filling his mouth.
All three gunmen were staring intently at the gold braid decorating Colonel Kapur’s uniform, like children intrigued by the costume of a clown. The tall youth with the cigarette stepped forward confidently, pointing at Kapur.
“You some kinda big boss man?” His words were slurred. He reeked of alcohol and unwashed sweat. “My name is General Terminator!” The young African stabbed his thumb into his bare chest then swept his arms wide. “An dis here area is under control of dah West Side Boys!”
The hairs on Bishop’s neck rose. He realized the checkpoint could only mean one thing, the rest of the gang was already in the refugee camp. It was going to be the Songo massacre all over again.
The youths were members of one of the most feared RUF groups in Sierra Leone; a gang that raped pregnant women and sliced open their bellies to gamble on the sex of an unborn child.
Kapur froze, unable to respond, much to the amusement of the West Side Boys. “Who is da big boss now, man? Run back to your momma before the Terminator kill you all!” the gunman screamed. He was completely unintimidated, his ego fuelled by the UN officer’s fear and a cocktail of alcohol and drugs.
Bishop spoke up, stepping closer to the Colonel. “We just need to get to the camp,” he stated calmly, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from shaking.
The leader of the small group spat at him, “Fuck off you white Yankee fuck. You not going anywhere.”
Before Bishop could respond, Kapur grasped his arm, pulling him away. “We need to go now, Lieutenant.” The man’s voice trembled with fear.
The younger officer lowered his voice, “Sir, I am going to offer them a bribe. It might change their minds.” He was intent on reaching the camp.
“No, Lieutenant Bishop. You will— ”
Sharp, rapid cracks of gunfire in the distance cut him off and his eyes widened with fear. More bursts of automatic fire accompanied by screams and shouts.
The West Side Boys started whooping like animals, jumping up and down in the middle of the track, punching their weapons in the direction of the refugee camp. They laughed, making crude gestures at the Colonel. “Don’t be afraid, big boss. We will save some of da young girls for you.”
Rage and shame boiled up in Bishop as he imagined the RUF gang sweeping through the camp, raping women and mutilating men. Images of the aftermath of the Songo massacre flashed through his mind.
Stepping behind the petrified Colonel to block the boys’ view, he disengaged his pistol holster’s thumb-brake. Grabbing Kapur roughly by the front of his shirt, he pulled him close enough to smell the rancid stench of the man’s sweat.
“I’ll shoot you myself if you try to stop me. Now give me the cash,” Bishop snarled. The Colonel looked stunned. Hand shaking, he pulled a thick yellow envelope from his pocket and passed it to the Australian.
Bishop caught the eye of Mirza cautiously walking up the muddy track. He gave the Indian a sly hand signal and turned to face the crazed gunmen. They were laughing with each other, excited at the prospect of some action.
Bishop’s confidence drained away as he assessed the situation. Deep in his gut he knew it was too risky to try to negotiate with the RUF ‘General’; the mix of drugs and alcohol in the youth’s bloodstream would make him irrational and impulsive. Clammy with sweat, he wiped his right hand on his pants. His chest tightened, constricting his breathing.
Swallowing nervously, he forced himself to address the young gunman. “Please, General Terminator, what is happening? Who is firing?” Bishop meekly moved closer to the teenager, his left hand waving the wad of US currency to draw his attention. “Can we pay you to get through to the camp?”
“I told you to fuck off, Yankee. Take your fuc
king money and go home before I cut off your hands as well!” Terminator cackled like a jackal, turning back to grin at his two comrades. “Short sleeves or long sleeves?” He laughed at the joke, enjoying the attention of being the big man.
Bishop realized in a panic the seriousness of the situation. With only a pistol he was faced off against three RUF fighters with automatic weapons.
Terminator’s expression abruptly became serious and he swung his rifle towards Bishop. Cocking it, his voice took on a savage tone. “Go home, Yankee pig, or General Terminator will blow your head off and fuck you right up!”
Bishop tensed as Terminator’s weapon pointed directly at him. In his mind he could see the bullet leaving the barrel and burying itself in his stomach. The youth looked back towards his companions, and Bishop snapped. He leapt forward pushing the barrel of the rifle away from his body and in one smooth action drew his pistol from its holster. The Browning barked twice in quick succession, the 9mm rounds smashing into Terminator’s sternum, ripping through his heart, blowing its remains out through the back of his rib cage. The teenager toppled backwards into the mud, a look of shock on his face. A choking sound came from his throat as his shattered lungs filled with blood.
Bishop had never shot anyone before, but the severity of the act didn’t even have time to register. Without thinking he adopted a two handed grip and adjusted his aim to target the second youth who was bringing his rifle up. The fore-sight and rear-sight aligned on the gunman’s head. Bishop fired rapidly. Two rounds went wide but the third penetrated the teen’s skull spraying his brain across the side of the battered Toyota pickup, streaks of blood and grey-matter blending with the rust.
The blast of Mirza’s AK-47 snapped Bishop out of his instinctive shooting as the third gunman was blown over the tailgate of the Toyota; the red lifejacket shredded by the heavy bullets. The Indian moved forward deliberately, his AK-47 tight in against his shoulder, alert to the possibility of additional fighters.
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