They slowed to a halt. Bishop opened the Land Rover’s battered door and stepped down. His boots sank into the mud. A cloud of mosquitoes swarmed up from septic puddles 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.
“Doesn’t look good, sir,” said Corporal Mirza Mansoor.
“I hear you, Mirza,” Bishop replied quietly, his hand instinctively moving to the holster on his hip.
“A very dangerous position, sir,” Mirza said, matter-of-factly. The Indian’s hard Asiatic features displayed no emotion.
“Yeah, we’re wedged in pretty tight. If they arc up with that machine gun, 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 backseat 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. “The colonel is probably right.”
Mirza raised an eyebrow.
Bishop continued. “Odds are they’re just trying to make a few dollars by charging the refugees passage. 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?”
Kapur made to speak but Bishop interrupted him. “No, the colonel and I will go talk to them.”
“OK, sir, 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 tracks with a recon party.” Bishop had worked with Mirza for barely a month but already he trusted the Indian corporal. 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 mustache was fitting in an old-school way; he was a born soldier 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 men. The other nine soldiers had already dismounted and were dispersed in the dense foliage either side of the track.
Bishop opened the rear door of the Land Rover and Kapur reluctantly pried his rotund body from the 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 with 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,” Kapur replied unconvincingly, adjusting the beret perched on his bald, perspiring head.
They walked steadily uphill toward 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 saw the gunmen were only teenagers. They all wore 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 UN officers were only a few steps away, then jerked upright, hefted a G3 assault rifle, and gestured to his comrades. The shorter boy, who was casually cradling an AK-47, stepped forward and slowly raised his hand. The third swiveled the heavy machine gun toward them from the back of the rusted pickup.
Bishop stopped only a few paces away. He was close enough to notice their eyes were glazed, and slid his hand to the grip of the Browning 9mm nestled against his hip. It was the norm for UN officers to carry only 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 pickup caused Bishop’s stomach to lurch. Jammed onto the spike of a snapped side 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 stared 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?” He reeked of alcohol and unwashed sweat. “My name is General Terminator!” The young African stabbed a 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 the 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 mama before the Terminator kill you all!” the gunman screamed. He was completely unintimidated, his ego fueled by the UN officer’s fear and a cocktail of alcohol and drugs.
Bishop stepped closer to the colonel. “We just need to get to the camp,” he stated, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from shaking.
The leader of the trio 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.”
Bishop lowered his voice, “Sir, I am going to offer them a bribe. It might change their minds.”
“No, Lieutenant Bishop. You will–”
Sharp, rapid cracks of gunfire in the distance cut him off and his eyes grew wide. More bursts of automatic fire were accompanied by screams and shouts.
The West Side Boys started whooping, jumping up and down, and 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 storming 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, who was 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 joining the 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 ‘General Terminator’; 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, 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 fucking 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 that he’d misjudged the situation. Armed 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 toward 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 the G3 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 toward his companions, and Bishop snapped. He leaped 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 back 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 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 gray 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, his red life jacket shredded by the bullets. The Indian moved forward deliberately, his AK-47 tight against his shoulder, alert to the possibility of additional fighters.
“Are they all dead, sir?” Mirza asked as he pushed past the pickup to scan the jungle ahead.
“Yeah, you did well, corporal,” Bishop replied, trying to sound confident. “There were only three of them.”
He holstered his pistol and knelt next to the corpse of Terminator, hands shaking as he checked the G3 rifle and stripped ammunition from the body. Bishop avoided looking at the lifeless face. This kid should be in school, he thought. What the fuck was he doing out here? What was he doing with a gang of animals like the West Side Boys? Did I have to shoot him? He shook his head and buried the thoughts; now was not the time for questions. He was now committed to saving the refugees even if it meant more killing.
Bishop was aware he was blatantly breaching his rules of engagement. The UN mandate hammered through this brain, again and again, the inhumane futility of it. In the distance a woman screamed. A long, shrill scream. Fuck this! he thought and hurried back to the UN vehicles with Terminator’s rifle and ammunition.
CHAPTER 2
KILIMI REFUGEE CAMP
Colonel Kapur stood in shock as Bishop sorted his equipment on the hood of the Land Rover. Checking his map, he identified a concealed route into the refugee camp and stuffed the document into his thigh pocket. He swiftly stripped the battered G3 assault rifle he’d taken from Terminator’s corpse, checking its serviceability. As he methodically inspected the components, Mirza and two of the other soldiers approached.
Bishop scrutinized the rifle as he spoke, “You know what I have to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Mirza murmured, glancing over at the colonel, then back to Bishop.
“I can’t ask you to come.”
“Three of us will go with you. The others will stay here and look after the colonel and the driver.”
“Be ready to move in two minutes.”
Bishop reassembled the rifle, satisfied that it would work reliably. He slammed home a magazine and cocked it, placing the other four magazines into the pockets of his shirt and pants. This is the first and last time I go outside the wire without body armor and a rifle, he told himself. Hastily, he tied a short length of cord around the stock of the weapon, allowing it to hang from his shoulder. Finally, he changed the magazine in his pistol and reholstered it. Ready for action, he glanced at the colonel and tossed the thick wad of bribe money to him.
“Stay here, sir. If we don’t come back within the hour, leave for Freetown.”
Kapur nodded, horrified at the calm demeanor of the young man who had just slain two teenage gunmen. It was clear what Aden was going to do next.
Bishop gathered Mirza and the two other soldiers in front of the Bedford truck. “OK, men, we don’t have much time.” Gunshots still echoed intermittently from the direction of the camp, and ominously, the screaming had stopped. “We’re going to the camp and we’ll do whatever we must to protect the refugees. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
Bishop looked the group over and continued. “I appreciate you all backing me up.” When this was over, Bishop knew that Colonel Kapur would most likely punish them.
“Sir, we wouldn’t let you go on your own.”
Bishop gave Mirza a nod, then pulled out his map. “Alright, we’re going to move down this track through the jungle, avoiding the main road. Stay with me, I’ll lead. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright, job’s on, let’s roll.”
Bishop, weapon held ready, moved swiftly along the steep track, sliding through the dark soil and rotting leaf litter. The three other men kept pace, patrolling silently behind him.
At the bottom of the slope they splashed through a shallow creek before coming to the edge of the jungle. As they reached the thick bushes bordering the camp, they crouched, watching for movement. The first ramshackle wooden huts and white triangular UNHCR tents looked deserted. Behind them, row after row of similar dilapidated shelters stretched for over five hundred yards, bounded on one side by the jungle and on the other by a dirty brown waterway littered with rubbish and plastic containers. In the distance Bishop could make out the hazy green mountains of Guinea, a safe haven for the antigovernment militias.
More screaming echoed through the empty camp. He signaled the men to move in. “Listen up. I’m on point; you cover the flanks and the rear.” He used his finger to draw their positions in the dirt. In diamond formation they could deal with a threat from any direction.
“I want the bastards dead: no prisoners, no wounded—dead!” Bishop’s hushed voice was sharp with anger and the Indian soldiers all nodded nervously. “Alright, men, let’s do this.”
The small team pushed out from the foliage, cautiously moving across the bare ground to the camp. The fetid stench of human refuse and rotting garbage hit them as they reached the first line of patchwork tents. Carefully stepping over piles of rubbish, they kept their rifles ready, eyes continually scanning.
As they penetrated deeper into the camp, the conditions worsened. Bishop noticed bullet holes in a sheet of corrugated iron used to patch a hut; the blood splattered across it looked fresh. The distant screams and yelling grew louder as the
y advanced. A women’s terrified shrieks were punctuated by gunshots.
Bishop signaled a halt. He crept forward, looking for a vantage point to observe the center of the camp. As he stepped across a narrow drainage ditch, the soft dirt gave way, dumping his boot in raw sewage splashing it up his leg. He swore as he clambered out of the mess and into an abandoned hut. Crouching, he peered between two sheets of rusted iron.
Not more than thirty yards from him, ten RUF fighters had herded a nearly a hundred refugees into the clearing. Huddled on their knees in the mud, the men, women, and children looked like terrified animals waiting to be slaughtered. Some wept silently. Others clutched each other with skinny arms, eyes wide with fear.
Scattered about the group were mutilated bodies. Drenched with blood and missing limbs, the corpses were a savage warning against resistance. To the side was a bloodied pile of amputated arms and legs.
Unaware of the demise of their sentries, the gunmen screamed with lung-bursting ferocity, fired their weapons into the air, and lashed out at the prisoners. Bishop watched as two young gang members dragged a screaming woman into a blue UN medical aid tent. “Bastards,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Two more RUF trained their weapons on the wide-eyed refugees while the others gathered around a huge man wielding a machete. My god, Bishop thought. He’s a bloody giant. The RUF commander moved like a predator. His scars marked him as a veteran killer; old gunshot wounds disfigured his bare muscled torso and a vicious scar twisted around his throat. His clothes reflected his status, the closest to any form of military uniform worn by the gang. Camouflage pants were tucked into a shiny pair of black jungle boots and a tangle of talismans dangled from his neck. The ensemble was topped by a dirty blue UN beret.
The RUF fighters gathered around their leader, cheering as he waved the bloodstained machete above his head. He grabbed a young boy and pinned him face down in the mud. He rammed his boot into the child’s back so his arms splayed out on either side.
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