Bishop was transfixed on the grisly scene. He knew exactly what was about to happen but couldn’t move. Fear paralyzed him.
The commander’s biceps bulged and he swung the blade like a broadsword. The machete sliced through the skinny arm with a sickening crunch of bone, burying itself in the thick red mud. The boy’s blood-curdling scream came to an abrupt halt as he fainted.
Retrieving the severed arm, the big man held it high for the terrified refugees to see. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he raged, “You spineless bastards, we fight for your freedom and you force us to do this!” He flung the arm into the growing pile of limbs, a thick cloud of flies lifting from the congealed, bloodied flesh as it landed with a wet thud.
Bishop collapsed to his knees. Vomit sprayed from his mouth, his body wracked with dry heaves and eyes filled with tears. He didn’t notice Mirza enter the hut; it took a firm grip on his arm to snap him out of shock.
“Sir, sir, are you OK?” Mirza whispered.
Shame gave way to fury as he wiped his mouth.
“I’m fine.” Bishop wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up. His teeth clenched. “Are the men ready?”
Mirza nodded confidently and led him out of the derelict hut where his men waited.
Bishop exhaled. “Let’s do this.”
They advanced into the clearing with Bishop in the lead. His rifle barked savagely as he concentrated fire on the startled group of RUF. High-velocity bullets tore into the bodies of the gunmen, rending flesh and shattering bone. The three Indian AK-47s roared, laying down automatic fire in support of Bishop’s single shots.
The leader dove to the ground at the first sign of the troops, evading the deadly hail of bullets that ripped through his followers. Frantically he crawled behind the closest line of shelters.
Catching a glimpse of the fleeing boss, Bishop charged forward, his weapon blazing until the breech locked open on an empty magazine. He dropped the smoking rifle, the sling around his shoulder caught it as he drew his pistol, cutting down another gunman in a volley of bullets. The RUF fighter collapsed backward as Bishop emptied the entire magazine into his chest.
The dying man’s ugly features contorted in pain. A frothy mixture of blood and mucus dribbled from his lips.
Bishop slammed a fresh magazine into his Browning, and with a loud slap, released the slide, chambering a round. He casually raised the pistol and shot the man cleanly through the forehead.
Eight of the gang members lay mortally wounded or dead as a result of the fusillade of fire laid down by the UN peacekeepers. Two of them were riddled with bullets, their pants around their ankles. They would never rape another woman.
The RUF commander had fled with one of his men into the depths of the camp. Bishop gave chase, striding away from the twitching corpse. As he picked up the pace he holstered his pistol and changed the magazine on his rifle.
“Wait for us!” Mirza yelled.
Bishop sprinted through the empty camp, ears ringing from the gunfight. “Where is that son of a bitch?” he muttered. Running between the threadbare tents, he caught a glimpse of movement ahead. Instinctively he dropped, skidding through a pile of trash. A volley of bullets cracked through the air above him. Rolling sideways, he pumped the trigger of his rifle, the rounds smashing into the firer’s position, spraying it with splinters of wood.
The shooter exposed his body for a split second as he sought cover. It was enough time for Bishop to snap off a single aimed shot instantly dropping the gunman. The corpse continued forward under its own momentum, slamming through the flimsy wall of a hut.
Bishop edged forward, his sights focused on the crumpled wall. Movement flashed to the left. He whipped round.
The massive RUF commander bore down on him screaming and swinging a machete. Bishop blocked the blade with his rifle. The force jarred the weapon from his hands and snapped the improvised sling. He lashed out with a fist but the blow bounced off the man’s face, the impact jarring his wrist.
In one smooth motion the African reversed his strike, punching the handle of the machete into Bishop’s gut, driving the air from his lungs and catapulting him onto his back.
The machete flashed down again and buried itself into the thick red clay. Bishop rolled and snatched the Browning from its holster. The muscular African moved faster. He kicked the pistol away and pounced, swinging the machete down. Bishop caught a wrist with both hands. The veins in the commander’s forearm bulged as his brute force and weight pushed the blade down.
Bishop felt a strong hand grasp his throat, closing the airway in a death grip. His hands faltered as he struggled for air and the machete touched skin. The burn of fatigue sapped the strength from his muscles.
The African spoke in guttural tones, his voice laced with animal hatred, “I’m going to chop off your hands, you little bastard. Then I’m going to carve out your heart and eat it.”
Darkness clouded Bishop’s brain. He faintly registered the sickening crunch of a rifle’s buttstock connecting with the side of his assailant’s head. The pressure on his throat released and the machete-wielding hand was ripped away. He struggled to his feet, gasping to clear his head and regain full consciousness.
“Sir, are you OK?” Mirza asked.
Bishop couldn’t hear anything; his mind had blocked out everything but the task at hand. He staggered to recover his pistol from the mud and turned to face the big African who sat dazed on his knees. Blood trickled from the man’s mouth and side of his head.
Picking up the machete, he felt the weight in his hand. He inspected the pocked edge of the blade and images of severed arms flashed in his mind. Raising his pistol, he aimed at the man’s forehead.
The RUF commander managed a sickly smile. “You’re too fucking weak to kill with steel, like a real man.”
Bishop holstered the Browning. Rage fueled his muscles. He raised the machete high with both hands and drove it down, his body almost pitching forward with the force. The blade smashed through the man’s forehead, cleaving it apart like a block of wood under an axe. Blood and brain matter sprayed up Bishop’s arms. The man’s eyes rolled back, one either side of the rusted blade wedged in his face.
He released his grip, and with a guttural moan the dead body fell backward, the machete protruding from his head, limp arms splayed out on the ground. For a few seconds he watched the corpse spasm before shock hit him hard like a punch to the gut. Fuck! That could have been me, he thought.
Mirza grasped his arm, dragging him to his senses. The Indian lectured, “Sir, you can’t always rely on yourself. A single straw is useless, but together, many straws make a broom.”
What? Broom? His thoughts muddled, Bishop rubbed at his throat, leaning wearily on the corporal. “Is that the same straw that broke the camel’s back, Mirza?” he croaked. “What are you, a fucking philosopher now?” His words sounded ungrateful but the expression on his face told a different story. “Thanks, mate.”
“You’re more than welcome, sir. You will be happy to know we have secured the camp,” Mirza said, “and I have moved the vehicles down.”
“Did you get the rest of those bastards?”
“We killed ten of them; any others must have fled. We won’t see them again, at least for today.”
Bishop nodded and with the aid of Mirza’s shoulder, staggered back to the center of the camp.
The remainder of the UN peacekeepers had already moved up to assist the traumatized refugees as they tended to their injured and dead. The convoy was now parked in the camp’s central square and the soldiers were distributing what limited supplies they had.
Wails of grief rent the air as relatives filtered back from the jungle and located family members: dead, maimed, or unconscious. Bishop surveyed the scattered bodies, slain gunmen lying among the slaughtered refugees.
Propping himself up against a sheet of sun-warmed, corrugated iron, he stared blankly at the armless body of the boy. One of the Indians was attempting to find the child’s pulse
. The soldier shook his head; it was futile. The ground around the boy’s body was soaked with blood. The Indian’s combat trousers stained crimson at the knees where he knelt by the boy.
Bishop stared at his trembling hands; they too were covered in blood. Tears welled in his eyes as thoughts of blame assaulted him. Did his indecisiveness cost that child his life? Could he have saved the boy with one well-aimed shot? He noticed some of the refugees watching him and forced his head to clear. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled to the medic, who was working intently on a young girl.
“Is there anything I can do?”
The medic looked up, face gaunt and pale. “Yes, thank you, sir. This one needs a splint.”
“Is it just her arm?”
“Yes, sir, her arm is badly broken and she is going into shock.”
“OK, I’ll help this one. You take care of the others.” Bishop knelt next to the girl. Forgetting his own fatigue, he carefully tucked a reflective space blanket around the tiny body.
As the young officer worked on splinting the arm, Colonel Kapur strolled over and watched. Growing impatient, the senior officer tapped Bishop on the shoulder.
“Lieutenant! I’ve contacted UN HQ and we have been ordered to return to base immediately. You need to explain yourself to the force commander!”
Bishop’s fists clenched and he stood slowly. Anger flared, then subsided as he looked down at the frail body wrapped in the silver space blanket.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I would like to make sure we provide all the assistance we can,” he said wearily.
The colonel nodded, content that at least a portion of authority was back in his hands. He was happy to entertain Bishop’s philanthropic ways in exchange for a little civility. When they returned to Freetown, the trigger-happy lieutenant would be put in his place.
***
FREETOWN
The UN mission force commander was a busy man. The Indian four-star general was doing his utmost to maintain a precarious cease-fire with a peacekeeping force comprised almost entirely of developing-world soldiers. Most of them were simply there to collect the UN dollar and wave their national flags. Very few actually wanted to enforce the cease-fire with the RUF; they left that to the poorly equipped forces of the Sierra Leone government.
Sitting in his makeshift office, the general methodically sorted through the pile of reports on his battered desk. The room had been part of an old primary school; the national education system had collapsed years ago. An ancient air conditioner rattled on the wall, leaking water and uselessly blowing hot air. The room’s original furnishings had been looted and replaced with a street market mismatch of items. It wasn’t the usual work environment for the senior officer but that was irrelevant. He had far more pressing issues.
Reaching across the desk for the ‘Incident Reports’ folder, the general contemplated Colonel Kapur’s account of the Kilimi incident. He had to admit the actions of the young lieutenant were bold, even though they broke half a dozen of the UN-mandated rules of engagement. The colonel’s comments were damning. Bishop was described as insubordinate, reckless, and trigger-happy, attributes highly unsuitable for the role of a UN peacekeeper.
The general’s thoughts were interrupted by the entry of his US liaison officer, a CIA paramilitary operative that he knew only as Vance. The towering African American barreled through the door like it was attached to a Western saloon. The door crashed behind him. “General Singh, what the hell are you gonna do about this Kilimi cluster?”
The general sighed. “I haven’t decided yet. Part of me wants to promote the young man and place him in charge of an entire battalion of infantry. A combat leader like him could pull the RUF into line within a week.”
A broad smile split Vance’s huge bald head. “Damn straight. As far as balls go, that kid’s packing a pair the size of cannonballs,” he bellowed as he lowered himself into the only other chair in the room. The tiny school chair groaned and threatened to splinter under his weight.
The general nodded as Vance continued, “Somehow I don’t think that pansy-ass head of mission would approve. Word on the street is he wants to make an example of the lieutenant.”
“A pity,” replied the general. “We could use more men like him, but the RUF are screaming murder. Lieutenant Bishop killed one of their most respected commanders.”
“Horseshit! The evil bastard was a rapist, a murderer, and a criminal. Even by RUF standards he was fucked up. I’ve tried to have him killed three times. Hell, most of the RUF were terrified of him.”
The general rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to know about the black ops that Vance was conducting. While he respected the CIA man, his methods were more than a little disconcerting.
“Vance, the issue here is not the actions of the RUF, it’s what to do with the lieutenant. The head of mission wants to charge him with war crimes.”
“What the hell? That’s bullshit.”
“Yes, but—”
Vance interrupted. “If Bishop hadn’t intervened, those butchers would have slaughtered the whole damn village.”
“You and I know this, but the head of mission wants to show the RUF we’re serious about maintaining the cease-fire. I’ve never seen him so furious.” The general’s face displayed a look of concern. “He’s worried that if the media gets hold of this, it could jeopardize everything. He has to hold someone accountable and that someone is probably going to be Lieutenant Bishop.”
Vance slammed his hand down on the arm of the flimsy chair. “Bishop did what any soldier should have. If anything, we should have that gutless colonel’s head in a noose.”
The general was moved by Vance’s words. He was a straight shooter, one of the few people who seemed to understand the reality of the situation in Sierra Leone. For a moment he thought Vance may have been right. With men like Bishop leading his forces, maybe, just maybe, they could make a difference.
He shook his head. As long as the UN hamstrung his soldiers and continued to seek a peaceful resolution, what could he really achieve? The decision was made. Bishop would be sent home. They would let the Australian Army discipline him.
***
The sun was low on the horizon. Bishop sat on his pack, waiting on the tarmac to board the C-130 transport aircraft. Although it was late in the day, Lungi Airport was still hectic, the contractors working in the sweltering heat to unload the line of aircraft. The UN mission was expanding, and the tiny airport operated at maximum capacity as a continuous stream of food and humanitarian supplies were delivered.
Bishop paid no attention to the activity; he was racked with anxiety and guilt. The slaughter of the RUF gunmen had made him uneasy, but the actions were justified. It was the vision of their leader hacking off the boy’s arm that played over and over in his head. He tried to suppress the images hammering in his brain and forced his thoughts back to the UN headquarters, where the force commander had told him he was being sent home. The Indian general had been severe. Bishop had stayed silent.
Vance had stopped him as he left the general’s office. “Hey, LT,” the big man had called out. “You did a damn fine thing out there. A lot of people are alive because of you.”
Bishop had no idea who the African American was, but he looked like Special Forces. “Tell that to the dead refugees at Kilimi,” he had countered.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. That whole camp would have been slaughtered if you hadn’t stepped up.”
“They still might be.” Bishop eyeballed him. “What’s to stop those West Side animals from rolling back in now and murdering the lot? A couple of old men armed with AKs?” Bishop shook his head. “The UN has hung them out to dry.”
“I know you’re angry, buddy, but a lot of people are trying their hardest to make this work.”
“Yeah, well, trying isn’t fucking doing and it sure as hell isn’t saving lives! Until the UN takes off the gloves and cracks down hard, this… this is all for nothing.”
“That’s why we
need more men like you. Men who are willing to put their balls on the line and make a difference.” Vance crushed Bishop’s hand and pumped his arm in a handshake.
“You ever need a job, LT, look me up.” A business card appeared and the CIA agent slipped it into the startled Australian’s shirt pocket. “We can always use more men like you.”
Vance’s words had embarrassed him. Bishop usually didn’t have time for Americans, but this one was different.
A whine of hydraulics interrupted Bishop’s thoughts as the ramp of his aircraft lowered. He stood up, waiting as a forklift off-loaded a pallet of cargo. Once the ramp was clear he swung his pack over his shoulder and walked toward the idling aircraft.
“Sir!” The voice was clear over the droning turboprops. Bishop stopped and turned. Mirza jogged up and grasped him by the shoulder. “Sir, I heard what happened and I want you to know I think it’s bullshit.”
A smile lit up Bishop’s sullen jaw. The corporal had adopted a few Bishop-isms. “No need for the ‘sir’ anymore, Mirza. It’s just Aden. What punishment did you cop?”
“I was charged and lost rank.” He shrugged. “Now I am a private, but at least I can stay and finish the mission.”
“I’m sorry, Mirza.”
“It doesn’t matter. You reminded us of why we became soldiers.” Mirza’s stern look split into a wide grin. “Maybe one day we will fight together again—side by side.”
“That would be an honor, my friend, that would be an honor.”
They shook hands, then Bishop turned toward the aircraft and walked up the ramp. As it closed, he took one last look at the man who had saved his life. Part of him wanted to stay, serve with men like Mirza, and try to make a difference, but he knew that ultimately the UN mission was hopeless. He resigned himself to being sent home.
CHAPTER 3
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 37