The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles)

by James S. Gardner

  “But Abel, it can't—.”

  “Quiet woman, you're embarrassing me,” he said, pulling her closer. He kissed her on the cheek and brushed away her tears. The old women showed their approval by making their traditional trilling sounds. A new life in the Sudan was a reason for celebration.

  ***

  When Ali Osman staggered into the Janjaweed camp on the eastern edge of the Sudd, the men who had abandoned him on the battlefield were taken aback. They had witnessed his wound and the blood. No man could have survived such a horrible injury. The fact that he was spared, meant Allah must be protecting him. Ali didn't tell his fellow soldiers that Abel Deng had saved his life.

  Abel used cow urine mixed with iodine to sterilize Ali's head wound, which bleached his hair orange. Having red hair is seen as mystical to the True Believers. Ali wore a hijab around his neck for good luck. It was a necklace composed of small leather pouches containing Quranic verses. For those soldiers who didn't wear hijabs, there was a mad scramble to buy them.

  Ali Osman basked in his celebrity. When word of his miraculous survival reached Khartoum, General Nur ordered that he be flown by private helicopter to the new Sudanese bivouacked staging area for a meeting.

  Three days later, Osman stood at attention in front of the general. Perspiration dripped from the tip of his nose, but he was afraid to wipe it away. It should have been a time of celebration, but Ali was worried. He was told that he was to receive his own command. This meant a percentage of the looted booty he could pilfer. The cattle and goats they stole were always reserved for the Janjaweed commanders. Now he could start his own herd, which he needed desperately as his wife was pregnant again.

  Ali's wife was the only decent thing in his life. Taking an additional wife was encouraged under Sunni Islamic law, but the concept repulsed him. Ali had a problem. His wife was a black African and a member of the Nuer tribe. The Arabs were encouraged to rape African women, but marrying an infidel, especially a Zurga, or black African, was contrary to the president's strict Islamic teachings. The punishment was death by stoning.

  There were rumors about the general. It was said he sometimes allowed African parents to choose between having their children shot or burned alive. Ali felt weak and dizzy from fear. He glanced indirectly at the general, who was sitting behind a desk. “So, you're Osman?”

  Ali cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” His voice sounded squeaky.

  “I see the savages have scarred you like they scarred me,” the general said, turning his face to show him his disfigurement. “I'm looking for a special officer. The man who held the position deceived me, and that I cannot tolerate. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Sir, I'll do my best,” Ali replied, stiffening to attention.

  “Are you married?”

  “No, sir.” Ali felt his heart pounding.

  “Good. There's no room for a family in a warrior's life. In the name of Allah, we must purify this country.” He unfolded a map of the Darfur on his desk. “There's an American living with the Dinka in this area,” he said, pointing at a spot on the map. “There may be another American with him.” The general handed Osman two photographs. “I want you to eliminate these men. There can be no connection to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, General,” Ali answered, studying the pictures of Arthur Turner and Jesse Spooner.

  “I'm providing you with two assault helicopters. One helicopter is carrying two drums of paraffin. I want the bodies burned. Go now— your men are waiting for you. That will be all, Osman.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ali saluted.

  “Remember, no survivors. I'll be observing your assault from my helicopter. I pray Allah protects you.”

  ***

  Ali Osman was so excited, his body tingled. He wondered how the general would reward him. He never shared his military experiences with his wife. This time I can tell her, he thought. He tucked his black robe between his legs with one hand and held on to his Kalashnikov with the other. A soldier helped him up into the backseat of the general's private helicopter. There was a snarling lion painted on the gunship's nosecone. Blood dripped from the lion's fangs. Within minutes, he was flying back into the Darfur.

  ***

  Abel was chosen by the refugees to lead them out of the desert. He knew they were close to the displaced persons' camp where he had last seen Arthur Turner. He could see the distant hills that marked the border. He decided the group needed to rest before making the final push. Abel had something new to fret about: Tabitha and the unborn baby she was carrying.

  At dusk, he sent out small search parties to scrounge the wadi for anything edible. Some of the women picked through the cannonball lumps of elephant dung for undigested seeds. Others picked grasses and turned over rocks searching for insects. When a man captured a small crocodile hibernating in a sand cave the group erupted in prayer.

  Abel divvied up the watery crocodile stew. The group demanded that Tabitha be given the largest portion. She accepted their generosity and then inconspicuously dumped the contents of her bowl back into the community pot. The group settled in for the night without the comfort afforded by a campfire. Abel was afraid the light might serve as a beacon for marauders.

  ***

  Ali Osman didn't know any of the militiamen now under his command. The story of his miraculous recovery from the gunshot wound had preceded him. The Arabs believed Osman was protected by the Prophet. If they fought next to him, they should also be protected.

  Ali decided to rest the camels and horses. Some of his men gathered around the campfires cleaning their weapons. Others smoked strong Turkish tobacco. A few of them knelt on rugs reciting the Tahajjud, or night prayers.

  Osman rested his head on his saddle and looked up at the stars. The crackling campfire spawned the only light. He thought about what they might plunder from the refugees in the upcoming assault. The guttural braying of a camel alerted him. He jumped to his feet and ran to the corral where his men had tethered the animals. One of his sentries walked out of the night towards him.

  “Praise Allah, I thought a lion had taken one of our camels. Why have you left your post?” Ali demanded.

  “I came upon a group of Zurgas. They're camped along this same wadi.”

  “Did they have any weapons or livestock?”

  “They're only starving beggars. They have nothing but the rags they wear. Not one of them is worthy of a bullet.”

  “Come, show me.” The two men rode their camels into the darkness. The broad-footed animals moved quietly in the thick sand. At a short distance from the camp, the sentry indicated they should dismount. They swung down out of their saddles and walked into the middle of the sleeping Africans.

  “Wake up! Get up, you filthy abids,” the sentry shouted, kicking a man who was slow to budge. “Get up, you worthless niggers. As Allah is my witness, I'll kill all of you.”

  The women screamed and the men cried out for mercy. They surrounded Abel and Tabitha knowing the Janjaweed seldom kill old people. It was better to let them starve than waste precious ammunition.

  “What are you hiding there?” the sentry demanded. He waded into the crowd, pushing people aside. When he reemerged, he was dragging Tabitha by her wrist. Ali focused his flashlight on the girl as the man ripped her ragged dress off. She cried out and tried to cover her nakedness with her hands.

  “This one's a fine Zurga. She has a plump ass for fucking,” the sentry yelled, grabbing a handful of Tabitha's buttocks.

  “Don't take too long. I haven't been with a woman in weeks,” the sentry said to Ali, assuming Ali would take her first. The light illuminated the sentry's eyes. His decaying teeth were reduced to blackened stumps.

  The Arabic name for the Dinka is Tagbondo, or stick people. Dinka boys are trained to fight with parrying sticks. The sticks are cut from the rockhard ebony trees. Like all Dinkas, Abel was never without his fighting stick.

  The sentry's last conscious thought was, “What's that swishing sound?�
�� He turned his head to investigate the noise, giving Abel a perfect target. The boy swung his long stick with the velocity of a bolt of lighting. It crashed into the Arab's face, driving his nasal bones deep into his brain. The sentry would have fallen no faster had he suffered a fatal rifle shot to the head. The refugees gasped as Osman cocked his AK-47 and stuck the barrel into Abel's belly.

  “Get down on your knees, Dinka.” Abel fell to his knees, waiting for the bullet to end his life. Tabitha knelt in the sand next to him and put her arms around him. They waited, but nothing happened. Abel looked into the light, but was night blinded. His eyes were transfixed by the nearness of his own death.

  “On your feet, Dinka. I want to see your face before I kill you. Is the black whore your sister?”

  “She's my wife.”

  Osman shined the light in Abel's face. He stared at him, and scratched his chin. “Dinka, tonight Allah will spare your life. Surely, you haven't forgotten me?” he asked, shining the flashlight on his own face and pointing to the scar on his forehead.

  Both Tabitha and Abel nodded affirmatively, but were unable to utter a word. Osman led them back to where he had tied the camels. He handed them a goat-skinned water bag and sat down in the sand. He placed his gun across his knees and motioned for them to sit down in front of him.

  “So, Dinka, Allah has brought us together again.” He picked up his gun and accidentally pointed it at Tabitha causing her to flinch. He reached forward to reassure her, but she flinched again.

  “Why are you frightened of me? I am also married to a Nuer woman,” he whispered, nodding at Abel. He glanced nervously over his shoulder as if he was embarrassed.

  “Dinka, why aren't you speaking?”

  “Can I give this water to the others?” Abel asked.

  “Why would you waste water on those old people? Better to give it to the camels.” Osman got up and walked over to his camel.

  Abel glanced at the rifle, but the Arab was too close. Ali walked back carrying three waterbags and dropped them in the sand at Abel's feet. “Dinka, your people are ignorant savages, but you're different. Give them this water. Tell them it's a gift from Allah.”

  Abel slung the water bags over his shoulder and headed back to the others. Ali waited until Abel was out of earshot before turning to Tabitha. “I think maybe we could become friends, I mean, the Dinka and me. What can you tell me about him?”

  “When I first met him, I thought he was just a skinny boy, but I was wrong. He's the wisest, most decent man I've ever known.”

  “The man he just killed might have a different opinion of him.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” When Ali nodded yes, she continued. “Why do you hate us?”

  “I don't hate you,” he answered.

  “Then why do you rape our mothers and kill our children?”

  “My people have lived in the Sudan for thousands of years. The great Nubian pyramids in the north prove that I am telling you the truth. Your people have invaded us from the west. Some of the tribes look like pre-historic monkeys. Their customs makes us look foolish to the rest of the world. It's my duty as a devout Muslim to purify this land.”

  “When you say purify, you mean kill. Is this a gift from Allah? Do you discuss these things with your Nuer wife?”

  Osman raised his hand to strike Tabitha, but something stopped him. He looked at her for a few seconds before speaking. “Tell the Dinka to take you south. In two days, I will lead a glorious attack on a camp not far from here. I give you this fine camel as a gift. One more thing—tell him he saved my life and I spared his. Now we are even. If he should appear in my rifle sights again, I will not hesitate to kill him.” Ali Osman stood up and walked into the night.

  Tabitha led the camel back to where the others were camped. Abel looked over her shoulder expecting to see the Arab following her. She told him of the warning.

  “We must leave at once.” Abel stared into the night and shivered. There's nothing in that camp but old people. Why would they attack it?” he asked himself.

  ***

  Rigby listened to the dispossessed natives pouring out of the Darfur. It was obvious the Sudanese government had ordered a massive genocidal sweep. Helen and Lynn treated as many of the sick as possible, but the sheer number of patients was overwhelming. Otto Bern's Cessna was pressed into service as an ambulance plane. He flew out the injured and brought back medical supplies. The hunting camp was turned into a field hospital.

  Getting Arthur Turner out of the Darfur was put on the backburner. That was until Otto relayed the message that Max Turner had chartered a helicopter and would be arriving at the hunting camp the next morning.

  Rigby knew the rescue wouldn't be easy. With tension on the Chadian border escalating, it became evident the Darfur was becoming more dangerous. Arthur may not have known it, but he needed to get out of harm's way.

  Rigby and Dutchy set aside the humanitarian work and refocused on the rescue. They reassembled the two Barrett fifty-caliber rifles. Dutchy tried mounting one of the weapon's tripods on the back of the truck, but the vibration from the engine made sighting of the rifle impossible. The men were discussing what to do with the weapons when Otto Bern buzzed the camp in his Cessna. Otto made another low pass, circled and landed in the opposite direction. He taxied up and parked under a large mahogany tree. The cloud of orange dust kicked up by the Cessna engulfed Dutchy and Rigby.

  “Well now, look what the cat dragged in,” said Rigby as Jesse crawled out of the copilot's seat. “What do we owe for the honor of this visit?” He slapped his hat against his thigh to knock off the dust.

  “Croxford, Dutchy,” Jesse said, shaking each man's hand. “Where's Lynn?”

  “She's with my wife tending to sick Africans,” Rigby answered.

  “The Sudan's becoming very unstable,” stated Jesse.

  “Did you hear that, Dutchy? I buy him a book and he chews on the cover. Spooner, what other tidbits of top-secret intelligence have you uncovered?” Rigby's smirk infuriated Spooner.

  “Look, I admit I'm no expert on this fucked-up continent. Just hear me out.”

  “Please continue, President Mandela, we're all ears.”

  Croxford pretended to pay attention, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He was consumed by the nauseating prospect of meeting Max Turner. When Jesse mentioned that he had talked Otto into making a reconnaissance flight over the refugee camp, Rigby's interest was renewed.

  “You say you saw militia encampments just east of the refugee camp?”

  “We counted three. Take a look at this note. Someone slid this under my door at the hotel in Kampala.”

  As Rigby read the note he scratched his stubble. “Who do you think wrote this?” he asked, handing Dutchy the note.

  “My hunch is that it was written by a man I met at the American Embassy.”

  Rigby put his hand on Dutchy's shoulder and smiled. “I guess we should have snatched Arthur Turner before he got so bloody popular. We may have to give these Arabs a chance to meet those seventy-two vestal virgins—or is it two seventy-year-old virgins?” Rigby laughed at his own joke.

  “I can't believe you find humor in this,” said Jesse. “It's like the Zulu warriors taunting the British soldiers before the battle of Isandlwana.” “Did the Zulus win?” Jesse asked. Secretly, he was hoping for a Zulu victory.

  Rigby ignored Jesse's question. He blew a smoke ring in the still air and raked his fingers through his hair before speaking. “My friend, you should go find Lynn and get Otto to fly you both back to Kampala. I'd have you take my wife, but I know she'll tell us both to go to hell.”

  Spooner walked over to the truck and examined one of the Barrett fifties. “Have you ever fired one of these M-82s?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “It's not as easy as you might think.”

  “And I suppose you've fired a fifty-caliber sniper rifle?”

  “I'm an ATF agent. That's Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. I've fired every weapon manufac
tured in the United States. I went to a training school on this baby,” he said, stroking the barrel. “Somali snipers were firing at American soldiers and then ducking behind concrete walls. A sniper, using a Barrett can fire three feet right or left from the last muzzle flash. Bang, right through the wall—one very dead sniper.”

  “You're so full of shit.”

  “All right, what's this called?” Jesse asked. He touched something that looked like a microprocessor.

  “I haven't the foggiest,” admitted Rigby.

  “It's called a Barrett Optical Ranging System, or BORS. It measures air temperature, barometric pressure and bore line angle. In other words, it takes the mystery out of bullet drop.” Rigby stooped to inspect the mechanism. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Oh no, you don't. I know where this is going. There's no way you're going with us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why? You've lied to me so many times, I've lost track. And you'll shit in your pants if there's any real shooting. You see, I went to school too. It wasn't some technical weapons class. It taught me to kill real people with real bullets. It was called a war.”

  Dutchy put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. He spoke softly. “What about the buffalo hunt? You said he saved your life.”

  “That buffalo just happened to get in the way of Jesse's bullet.”

  “I shot that buffalo in the leg because that's where I was aiming,” Jesse said. “Now that is bullshit, and you know it.” “Croxford, I've seen you shoot. I could outshoot you blindfolded. I don't give a shit what you did in your war. That's ancient history.”

  “Dutchy, I believe I've been challenged. Pity dueling's been outlawed.”

  “If I win—you take me with you,” said Jesse.

  “Done.”

  Jesse let Rigby pick the weapon and the target for their shoot-off. Croxford opted for his namesake rifle, his old bolt-action .416 Rigby. Jesse fired three practice rounds to get the feel of the gun. The target was a whiskey bottle hung from a tree at two hundred meters. Both men would shoot from a standing position without the aid of a brace.