by Joe Nobody
The suffering was made worse by their destination, the now-abandoned village requiring a climb of 4,000 feet along the incline of some unnamed mountain. Bishop could think of several names for the hill that was causing his legs to cramp, most of the labels unfit to be printed on any map.
With his shotgun in his left hand and a razor sharp machete swinging from his right, he cut his way through some of the thickest undergrowth he’d ever seen. “This is no place for a boy from West Texas,” he mumbled to himself.
Bishop peered out from under the jungle foliage at a completely altered landscape. The dense, triple-canopy above had begun thinning as the column gradually worked its way up an ever-steeper incline. As the altitude increased, Bishop noted two distinctive changes. The first was the undergrowth; most of the diminishing plant life now tinted an earthy brown rather than the viscoid entanglement of emerald-green they had struggled through for miles. The second variation was an increased difficulty in catching his breath, the thinner air containing less oxygen.
As if some mighty God had drawn a line on the side of the mountain and dared the vegetation to cross his mark, the jungle suddenly ceased. The tropical bush was replaced by waist-high, mud-colored grass covering the mountain’s slope.
Any drastic change in surroundings dictated a stop. Knowing it would be a few minutes before the main group caught up to his position, Bishop took the opportunity to drop his pack. The relief experienced after removing the heavy kit was practically orgasmic.
Since combat in a jungle environment is often close up and personal, Bishop had selected a 12-gauge, automatic shotgun for the mission. The weapon was devastating within 75 yards, but lost effectiveness at long distance encounters. Scanning the open, prairie-like landscape in front of him, he expected Stoke to reassign him from a scouting role back to the main formation. Wide-open spaces required the point man to have a longer-range weapon. Still, he had packed a few dozen slugs, and they would extend his capabilities if it came to a fight. He decided to use the time to replace the seven rounds of buckshot with a mixed load, every other shell being a one ounce, solid plug of lead. The operators called the process “candy striping.”
Just as he finished reloading, the main body arrived. Stoke took a knee beside Bishop and scanned the open grasslands. “Any movement?”
“No, sir. I’ve not seen any sign of life other than a few birds.”
Nodding, the Brit turned to the men and announced, “We’ll hold up here until dark. You’ve got two hours. Make the best of it. Red, you’ve got the first watch.”
No one wasted any time dropping packs and removing chest rigs and harnesses. While the team had to stay in thick bush to provide cover, occasional patches of sunlight penetrated the canopy overhead. Bishop had to laugh as he walked by one such island of solar warmth. Four pairs of white, prune-wrinkled feet protruded into the pool of brightness, the smarter men knowing healthy feet improved their chances of surviving. Bishop wasted no time in joining the foot-drying party.
There was a half moon rising over the African landscape when the scouts moved out. Bishop lagged back, joining the main group, glad to be rid of the responsibility associated with walking point. It was a stressful job in so many ways. Besides being the first guy available for target practice, the scouts were responsible for detecting tripwires, ambushes, and other threats. A higher level of focus and concentration was required to do the job properly, that stress exponentially increasing a man’s mental and physical fatigue.
In the open ground, the two scouts stepped about 150 meters in front of the main cluster of men. While every operator was equipped with night vision, the two point men worked their devices hard, scanning not only the ground immediately in their path, but checking all access points to the formation.
Each shooter was equipped with glow-in-the dark Velcro panels. These small patches could be placed anywhere on a contractor’s load vest or hat. While the night was bright enough for the main body of men to stay together, the scouts utilized the patches so visual contact could be maintained.
As the group progressed down a gentle slope, Bishop could see both of the glowing green patches off in the distance. The ghost-like visual of two seemingly suspended, green dots was enhanced by a spooky bobbing motion as the point men tread. If the ghoulish specks disappeared, the main group would stop - a signal that something was amiss up ahead. If a scout heard or saw a potential threat, his first move was typically to go prone and thus the patches’ phosphorescence would vanish. He could also cover the glowing cloth with his hands, a signal informing the men behind to be alert.
Three hours later, the point men both disappeared at the same time, but the action was anticipated. According to the maps and satellite photos, they had arrived at the abandoned village. Stoke gave the hand signals, and the team flattened out to form a skirmish line. The boss then trotted off to the nearest scout to have a look for himself.
Bishop took a knee and waited, the adrenaline of pending action competing with the exhaustion of a long, physically demanding mission. The man to Bishop’s right whispered the order to “Move to the ridge,” which Bishop then repeated to the next in line.
A small rise bordered one side of a cluster of mud huts, partially intact fences, and worn dirt paths. Most of the thatch roofing was missing from the skeleton of support poles rising into the night sky. The place smelled of damp earth, burnt wood, and something even more unexpected… cordite.
Scanning the area with his night vision, it quickly dawned on Bishop that a battle of some sort had taken place here. The green and black image displayed through the scope didn’t provide as much depth perception as normal vision, but the evidence was clear – this place had suffered either an artillery shelling or a mortar attack. Bishop guessed it was the latter.
Circular indentions about four meters in diameter were detectable through the compound, the rows of blast rings running in almost perfectly straight lines. While the impact zones weren’t exactly craters, the vegetation was less dense inside the affected areas. If a structure’s foundation was within a ring, it showed damage. Whoever had attacked this place had showered quite a bit of ordnance into a relatively small area.
The battle damage wasn’t a huge surprise. This part of Africa had known little but conflict and war for decades, and it was likely that any town or city would have experienced some level of violence.
“Fifteen meter spread, straight line for one pass,” sounded the command from Bishop’s right. He again relayed the whispered instructions down the line.
When Stoke stood and began walking into the center of the village, the rest of the team joined him, forming a line with weapons at the ready, and heads pivoting right and left.
The place was completely empty – no sign of current, or even recent occupation.
The team regrouped at the far edge of the settlement, Stoke clearly not happy that their search wasn’t over. The leader unfolded a map on the bare earth, the red lens of his flashlight providing illumination. “Now where the hell would they be going? We are 20 miles from anything remotely resembling civilization. Even if his intent were one of these paltry hamlets, there’s a lot easier route than the one we’ve been on.”
Bishop studied the map and pointed, “Aren’t there any structures or homes around this big lake? Back home, people always settle around water.”
Stoke pulled a handful of reconnaissance photos from his satchel, flipping through several before locating the shoreline. One by one, he studied the images, eventually looking up and shaking his head. “There’s one small structure here at the dam. It appears to be some sort of control building or maintenance shed. The lake was created 11 years ago by a United Nations project to keep the valley below us from flooding. The UN hoped to foster more agriculture in the region that had been prone to high water each monsoon season. According to one report I read, the project has been pretty successful both in the output of crops and relocation of displaced persons.”
Bishop checked the
photo Stoke was holding, trying to get an image of the place in his mind. “Sir, do you think our target headed to that lake?”
Before Stoke could answer, one of the outward facing sentries hissed, “Movement… grass… west side of the path.”
Only a blink of time passed before the contractors were moving, each man taking a position and reading his weapon. Like a well-drilled sports team, each operator seemed to instinctively sense where he should go. Bishop scurried three steps to a fallen tree, probably a victim of the mortar attack from not so long ago. Going prone behind the cover, his first instinct was to survey the area to verify someone was behind him. The semi-circular perimeter appeared intact.
Scanning to his immediate front with the night vision was the next step. Once he was convinced the threat wasn’t danger-close, he mounted the device in front of the red-dot optic that topped the shotgun. The dot’s tube blocked part of the NVD’s field of view, but Bishop could still affectively aim and scout using the light amplification technology.
The main trail twisting from the village to the lake passed immediately in front of Bishop’s position. The worn path was bordered by waist-high brown grass and the occasional shrub or short tree. That grass is going to be a problem, he thought. It will conceal any threats until they are within a few feet. They can see me, but I can’t see them.
Stoke had taken cover behind the trunk of Bishop’s tree. Only ten feet away, Bishop took a chance and whispered, “This isn’t good, Stoke. This isn’t the place for a fight. Can we pull back into the village?”
“You’re bloody right about that, lad. Pass the word, we’re falling back.”
Before anyone could move, another contractor warned, “Movement… grass… east side of the path.”
The news complicated things, as it appeared there were at least two separate threats, each approaching from a different direction.
“Bishop, you and Spider cover our withdrawal – see you in a minute, lads.”
Nine of the contractors rose in unison, the group falling back toward the main cluster of huts and fences. Bishop and Spider remained behind, each man’s head and barrel pivoting, looking for work.
Without warning, a long burst of automatic fire exploded from the grass, the rounds snapping well over the contractor’s heads. Several throats erupted in battle cries, and then a cluster of shadows appeared at the edge of the grass. They charged, screaming, firing, and rushing directly at Bishop’s position.
The safety came off the shotgun without thought. Bishop’s training kicked in, his immediate reaction to pull the trigger held in check until the red dot of his optic centered on the lead man. The scattergun roared, the stock recoiling hard against Bishop’s shoulder. The weapon’s kick moved the barrel to the right, and Bishop didn’t fight it. Another outline of a man appeared behind the dot, and 10 pellets of double-ought buckshot departed the weapon’s barrel at 1375 feet per second.
Spider’s weapon began barking close by, but Bishop sensed it wasn’t firing at his targets. Someone was trying to flank their position.
A huge ball of white and red flame exited Bishop’s barrel with every shot, the affect providing the attackers with an excellent point of aim. Hunks of tree bark and small geysers of soil warned Bishop that the fire directed at him was becoming more accurate - but there wasn’t time to move. He pumped round after round at the approaching threats, his aim drawn by the optic’s view - flashing muzzles and black on green images advancing toward his position.
His shotgun held seven rounds plus the one in the chamber. In what seemed like a matter of only a few seconds, the weapon locked back empty. Bishop reached for his side arm, but sensed an attacker only a few steps away.
He could make out individual features of the threat, specifically the barrel of the AK47 battle rifle coming to bear. Bishop rolled hard left, his hand trying to grasp the grip of the pistol at his waist. A stream of deadly lead-pills slapped the ground where his body had been a split second before.
The .45 Colt automatic pistol cleared its holster on Bishop’s second roll, the safety flipped off as he extended the weapon toward the attacker. There wasn’t any need for either man to use sites or aim, they were that close.
Both men rushed their shots, both projectiles whizzing harmlessly off into the air of the high plains. Bishop fired a second round and then a third, but his opponent remained standing. Bishop made it to his knees, readying to leap at the foe and puzzled by the seemingly ineffectiveness of his pistol. Body armor, rushed into his mind, the guy must be wearing armor.
Right as Bishop coiled to leap at his foe, the opponent fell straight over like a stiff plank of wood - the body generating a solid thud as it hit the earth. Shotgun shells began flying from the bandolier into the tube of Bishop’s weapon, the reload slowed by the darkness, shaking hands, and a concerted effort to keep an eye on the grass.
“You okay?” gasped a winded Spider.
“I’m good… you?”
“Yeah… but damn that was close. I had five of the fuckers doing the Chinese wave attack over here.”
“Five? Is that all? Where the fuck were you? I had at least twice that many and was wondering if you’d decided on a nap or some shit. Thanks for the help, buddy.”
“Bullshit on that! I call bullshit! Twice that many, my ass. What did you have… two?”
The sound of boots stopped the exchange, three members of their team rushing up to help. “’Bout fucking time you guys decided to join in,” Spider snapped. “Were you ladies enjoying a nice picnic back there?”
“Fuck you, Spider. We figured you guys were fighting a couple of stray dogs or maybe shooting at each other by accident.”
Stoke and the rest of the men joined up just as the low groans of a wounded man drifted through the air. When they were confident the attack was over, Stoke positioned some men for security and then began to circuit the battlefield, shining his red flashlight on the bodies that littered the plain. Bishop accompanied the Brit, partly out of morbid curiosity, partly to provide security.
Starting with the victim of Bishop’s pistol, Stoke kicked the AK clear and then rolled the body over with his boot. The crimson beam sought the downed man’s hands first, Stoke being weary of the combatant playing possum and perhaps gripping a hand grenade or sidearm. After finding empty hands, the ray of light traveled up the causality’s chest where two large purple circles of blood indicated the fellow was no longer a threat. When the light reached the face, Bishop inhaled sharply.
The dead attacker was just a kid, no more than 13 or 14 years old. Bishop turned away, his stomach convulsing in painful spasms. Trying not to vomit, he lurched a few steps, half bent at the waist and stumbling badly. Spider moved to his friend’s side and in a firm voice instructed, “Steady there, partner…. Drink some water…. Go on.”
Reaching for the tube connected to Bishop’s camelback, Spider helped with the mouthpiece while steadying his buddy’s wobbly legs. After gulping down a couple of swallows, Spider escorted Bishop to the fallen tree and helped him sit down.
“They’re all kids,” a voice sounded in the distance. “What the fuck is going on here, Stoke?”
Before the leader could respond, one of the sentries yelled, “Shit!” A commotion followed, the sounds of someone grunting, a solid thud, and then “Got him!”
All eyes and a few rifle barrels sought the source of the disturbance, the high blades of grass rustling violently. One of the contractors emerged, half dragging and half carrying a struggling man. Once clear of the vegetation, the large HBR shooter unceremoniously lobbed his cargo into the middle of the gathered contractors. “I found this fucker hiding in the grass over there. He ain’t no kid.”
Flashlight beams illuminated a middle-aged man, his frightened eyes darting around while his hand attempted to shade his eyes. The captive was dressed in a dirty, mud smeared, white dress shirt, khaki slacks and a pair of expensive looking dress shoes. He didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons.
Stoke tilted his head, studying the terrified prisoner. “He’s not our Mr. Ombomtu, that’s for sure.”
Seemingly dismissing the captive as worthless, Stoke half turned away and issued an order to a nearby contractor. “Red, go ahead and kill him. He’s not the guy we’re after. And besides that, he makes me sick, using a bunch of kids as a shield, relegating them to a suicide mission. Make it quick.”
Red cycled his M4, raising the weapon to his shoulder. The captured man screamed, “No! Wait! I know where Ditto is.”
Stoke reached out and touched Red’s rifle, gently pushing the now centered barrel downward. Pivoting abruptly, he took a menacing step and then towered over the terrified man. “Don’t fuck around with me…talk or die.”
“Di... Di... Ditto is at the lake,” the prisoner stuttered in heavily accented English.
“How many men does he have with him?”
“I’m… I’m not sure. You’ve killed some of his army tonight.”
Bishop jumped up from the log, his eyes full of fury. He grabbed the prisoner by the hair and dragged the protesting man to the closest causality. “That’s not a fucking soldier, asshole. That’s a child. Is that what you call an army?”
Realizing everyone was staring, Bishop shoved the captive to the ground, spit on his back, and then returned to his perch on the log.
Stoke didn’t waste the moment. He bent over the whimpering prisoner and whispered, “You’d better start talking, lad, and talking really fast. I’m not going to be able to control my men much longer.”
The guy looked up at Stoke and then chanced a glance at Bishop. Bishop met the fellow’s gaze with a stare of pure hatred. Never diverting his eyes, Bishop reached to his chest rig and pulled his fighting knife from its scabbard, the moonlight and red torches reflecting an evil hue around the blade.
“Ditto has many more fighters with him. These are his soldiers. Orphans…vagabonds…all his fighters are young like these. All the older men are dead from past wars.”