by Mark Mannock
The man paused. His eyes showed a flicker of watery sadness before the corners of his mouth turned downward and his forehead creased.
“If you have a God, I suggest you make peace with him now because you are about to meet him face to face.” The terrorist’s dark features furrowed even further as he began to squeeze the trigger. His gun was now pointed solely at me. For the second time today, I saw no way out.
The next half-second seemed like an eternity. I glanced at Greatrex. The horror and frustration in his wide eyes told the story. I took a breath, assuming it to be my last.
Suddenly my would-be executioner let out an anguished cry and fell forward, sprawling at our feet on the cabin floor. I saw why. The khanjar that I had stupidly left on the unconscious terrorist in the hallway protruded from the center of his back. A waterfall of deep-red blood streamed from the wound.
Feeling the relief of a man who has just escaped a death sentence, I looked up to see a grinning Jumaa gazing around the room.
“It is just as well I have trouble following instructions,” he said.
He was inordinately calm for someone who wasn’t a combat professional but had just taken a life.
I sensed a smile slink onto my face as I said, “As mentioned earlier, Jumaa, I think there is more to you than meets the eye.”
Our Sudanese friend just tilted his head to one side and grinned.
Chapter 5
“I think we better get out of here quickly,” said Jumaa. “The SAF troops will have heard the gunfire from outside and be on their way.”
I looked around the cabin. The communications equipment was now a bloodied mess with a few more holes in it now than the engineers intended. It wasn’t designed to be at the center of a firefight.
“Well, any chance of using this gear is gone,” I said. “On the good side, we’re still alive, so let’s make the most of it and disappear.”
The big fella nodded.
“Although before we go, I think we should take a second to question our friend in the corridor, if he’s conscious. He may give us some idea about where they are holding Blake,” I continued.
“It’s worth a shot,” said Greatrex.
It wasn’t. The remaining live terrorist remained dead to the world.
“Bring him with us,” I instructed. “I want to be there when he comes to.”
Jumaa looked worried. “If we are stopped by the army with an unconscious man in the truck, it will raise suspicions. It would be very hard to explain.”
“It’s worth the risk,” said Greatrex. “He may be our only lead.”
With that, the big fella heaved the limp body up over his shoulder and we descended the aircraft steps.
We’d just made it back to Jumaa’s Land Cruiser when we heard the screech of tires and voices yelling coming from the hangar.
Greatrex threw the unconscious terrorist on the back seat and climbed in next to him. Jumaa and I got in the front.
“Let’s move it,” I said. Jumaa responded by flooring the gas pedal.
The fading light cast long shadows as we drove through the streets of Khartoum. There seemed a little more traffic around now. It appeared people had overcome their initial shock at another moment of political unrest and resumed their lives.
“I have a place in Al-Lamap,” said Jumaa. “It is very private, and not too far from here. The less time we spend on the streets with our guest, the better.”
“All right,” I responded. “We can come up with some sort of plan after we get there.”
Jumaa didn’t alter the direction of the vehicle. I had the feeling he had already decided that his home was the safest place to hole up.
As we turned westward onto a relatively major arterial road, a bank of traffic in front of us caused us to slow to a crawl before stopping.
“Military roadblock,” announced Jumaa. “This could be difficult.”
“Can we turn around?” asked Greatrex.
“That would invite inspection at the best, detention at the worst,” responded our host. “We must wait and see how the cards fall.”
That kind of waiting was not my strong suit. I liked to have control. Sitting here, we had none.
“Pass me your gun,” said Greatrex.
I’d held on to the dead SAF soldiers’ rifle in case we needed it again. Greatrex had done the same with his Kalashnikov. As I passed my weapon over to him, he shoved them both on the floor of the back seat. He peeled some robes off our terrorist guest and covered the guns with it.
“Sit our friend upright,” instructed Jumaa. “Let him lean against you.”
Greatrex did as instructed.
As we waited in line, the late afternoon sun faded into twilight. More people, mostly men, gathered in groups along the wide sidewalks. Although difficult to tell from a distance, their animated body language suggested an element of tension in their conversations. As news of the coup spread, stories, both true and inaccurate, would emerge. Would the unrest build or subside? The streets of Khartoum had evolved into a bloody mess of violence several times before.
Ahead of us, military personnel in dusty green uniforms blocked the now floodlit street with army supply trucks. As we drew closer, it became obvious that the soldiers were heavily armed. No vehicle was getting through without being stopped and questioned.
We sat there in silence. As Jumaa had mentioned, it was too late to make a break for it, and any physical confrontation with this many troops could only end badly for us. Our immediate future lay in our new friend’s ability to talk our way through this.
Finally, as we rolled to a halt at the front of the queue, armed SAF soldiers appeared on each side of the car. Jumaa wound down his window before being requested. Proactive.
A heated exchange of words became quickly strained. Greatrex and I understood none of what was said. At one point, the soldier questioning Jumaa indicated with his rifle to the comatose passenger in the back seat. The soldier raised his voice and repeated, “Al zul de ghamran leh?”
Jumaa appeared relaxed, although I had no doubt that he felt as tense as hell. He responded to the soldier while smiling and gesticulating from the driver’s seat. At one point, he seemed to be pretending to take a drink.
The soldier paused. He took a good look at the man in the back seat next to Greatrex. Suddenly the soldier burst out laughing and animatedly kicked his foot high up in the air. After that, he waved us through.
We didn’t speak for a good two minutes, not until we made it well clear of the roadblock.
“What the hell happened there?” I asked.
Jumaa quietly chuckled to himself. “You know, I really didn’t think that would work,” he announced.
“What did you tell them?” asked Greatrex.
“I said that you two worked with a Western maintenance crew employed by Boeing. I also said that our friend was your local liaison. I mentioned that being weak-willed Westerners, you’d both been unnerved about being caught up in a strange country in the middle of such unrest. I told him you downed a few drinks this afternoon to calm yourselves.”
“How did you explain our unconscious companion?” I asked.
Jumaa grinned again. “I said that he had tried to keep up with you and also consumed some alcohol. I told them he was Muslim and had broken sharia law. I said not only would his community at the local mosque be unhappy with him, but also his wife when I told her.”
“What about the kick in the air?” asked the big fella.
“The soldier said that there could be no punishment he was able to inflict that could be worse than what his wife would do. That’s when he moved us on.”
Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a small concrete-block building at the end of a narrow dirt road. A small veranda, with a painted railing and an old refrigerator sitting by the front door, ran the width of the house. Jumaa’s home may not have been particularly upmarket, but it appeared well cared for.
Other buildings of a similar size but in a variet
y of conditions populated the surrounding area.
Our Sudanese guide pulled up with the back door of the Toyota adjacent to the front door of the shack. Although darkness had fallen, it didn’t pay to bring unwanted attention to our visitor. Jumaa jumped out of the driver’s seat, walked around the vehicle, and helped Greatrex carry the hostage inside.
I followed carrying the two guns, still wrapped in the man’s robes.
The inside of the shack was as spartan as the outside. The dwelling consisted of two rooms: one for living and one for sleeping. Both rooms had hard stone floors. A small, cluttered kitchen area perched in shadow at one end of the tiny living room. Like the outside, the interior of the building looked neat and well cared for.
Greatrex and Jumaa dumped our prisoner onto an upright kitchen chair. Jumaa reached into a cupboard, produced some rope and proceeded to tie our man to his seat.
“You must have really clobbered him,” observed Greatrex. “He’s still totally out of it.”
“I didn’t have much choice at the time,” I responded.
“Well,” announced Jumaa. “I will provide some food while we come up with a plan, eh?”
“We still need to find a way of contacting the American authorities,” I added. “That has to be a priority.”
“I may be able to help with that,” said Jumaa, a cooking pot already in his hand, “but first, we eat and wait.”
In the right circumstances, a sniper’s dominant skill is patience, along with an acute ability to observe. The addition of Jumaa’s cooking was a bonus as we spent the next hour eating, planning, and waiting.
I knew that if we could get him to talk, whatever our captive terrorist had to say would have a large impact on the next twenty-four hours of our lives. I just hoped his words would also have a positive impact on the life of US Vice President Jefferson Blake.
Chapter 6
The groaning began around an hour later.
Over the following ten minutes, our captive gradually regained consciousness. It would be anyone’s first instinct to show a recovering man a little sympathy, maybe offer him water. But as the terrorist became more lucid, I considered the dead men and women he had left in his wake. My mind went to the pile of corpses in the office at the airport and the Secret Service agents who perished at the hotel. I wondered what compassion our prisoner and his friends had shown them.
My animosity built to rage. When he pleaded for a drink, I slapped him hard across the face, out of character, but also out of patience. No water.
“Nicholas,” said Greatrex, a firm agitation in his voice.
“I know, I know,” I responded. “I’m just pissed.”
Jumaa brought a jug of water over to our prisoner. He placed it on the floor, six inches beyond his reach.
“Motivation,” he declared.
Greatrex walked behind the chair, reached down, grabbed the terrorist’s hair and yanked him backward. I stared into the rebel’s eyes. Bitter hatred. His and mine.
“I’ve killed many men,” I began. Jumaa’s eyes widened as I spoke. Astonishment, perhaps even alarm—clearly beginning to understand his guests were a little more experienced than he’d bargained for. “It will mean nothing to me to kill one more. Do you understand?”
The man tried to nod, but Greatrex’s grip held him hard against the back of the chair.
“Tell me what I need, and you may survive,” I demanded. No response.
Our prisoner’s features crunched into a snarl. Through bared teeth, he spat. “My life has no importance. You and your infidel kind will burn in hell alongside all murderers of the innocent. My God is great.”
Greatrex tightened his grip. The man’s pain was palpable.
“Then I’ll not waste my time,” I replied.
I got up and strode over to the cupboard where the gun I had taken from the dead SAF soldier was leaning. I picked it up and released the safety. Pointing the weapon at the terrorist, I nodded in Jumaa’s direction asking, “Will your neighbors react to the noise of a gunshot? I’ll only need one.”
“It is not a problem,” he replied. “Gunfire is not unusual around here during times of unrest.”
I studied the man on the chair. For a brief second, there was hesitation.
“Where is Vice President Jefferson Blake being held? You have ten seconds to decide if you live or die.” I stepped closer to him. The rifle barrel was an inch from his cheek.
To my surprise, Jumaa took a pace forward, crouched down and whispered into our captive’s ear. He spoke in Arabic. What was he doing? When he had finished, he pushed the jug toward the man then nodded, as if to prompt him.
The seconds ticked past. No one uttered a word. I felt my finger tightening on the trigger when the terrorist yelled, “Shararaa!”
“What did you say?” I demanded.
Suddenly, without warning, Jumaa swept down, picked up the jug and smashed it over the terrorist’s skull. Blood, water, and pottery sprayed across the room. What remained of the man’s head rolled to one side. Life extinguished.
Greatrex looked surprised. I was furious.
“Why in God’s name did you do that, Jumaa?” I yelled.
“He is my countryman,” replied the Sudanese man. “It is only right that I am the one to inflict justice upon him.” Anger.
“But he told us nothing. We needed his information.” I tensed in frustration. “You’ve killed our only lead.”
Silence.
“Nicholas,” Jumaa began, “when I heard you speak to this zealot, I could feel your rage. Between the fervor you displayed at the airport, and your approach here tonight, I sensed that you and Jack have not been totally transparent with me—no civilian would ever be able to handle these weapons with such precision. I was also certain that you would not allow this man to survive. It was a simple choice. Does he die by your hand or mine?”
“But…” I began.
“What did you say to him?” interrupted Greatrex. “What did you say just before you used the jug as a flyswat?”
“I informed him that his God had presented him with two paths. He could either cooperate with us, and be rested and replenished, or deny us, and die within seconds. The jug of water was the symbol of our good faith.”
Jumaa turned toward me, frowning. “I saw the answer in his eyes, Nicholas. He would never talk.”
“So, we are nowhere,” said Greatrex.
“No,” continued our Sudanese friend, “my last words to this fool were ‘you will die alone for nothing and you fight in no one’s name.’”
Neither Greatrex nor I spoke. It was clear Jumna had more to say.
“In his anger, our deluded warrior made his stand, preparing to die in the name of his tribe.” Jumaa looked Greatrex and I up and down, as though expecting a response.
Silence.
Jumaa permitted himself a slight grin. “I fear I’ve not been clear. When he cried out, Shararaa, I glimpsed into this man’s evil soul. I saw his world and the deathly brothers with whom he walked. With one word he told us everything.” The Sudanese shrugged his shoulders. “So I helped him along the journey down his God’s pathway.”
“And…” I waited.
“The information will be helpful, but… I’m afraid it is terrible news.”
I sagged.
“First, you must realize what is happening here,” began Jumaa. “I’ve told you of the continual conflict between the pro-democratic movement and those who believe that Sharia law should rule Sudan. This struggle seems eternal, as evidenced by last night’s coup.”
Jumaa paused, ensuring our attention.
“There are at least seven Islamic groups fighting for dominance. The most reasonable are promoting a coexistence with some level of democracy. At the extreme end, there are those who insist a representative government has no place in our country. They desire a return to the traditional ways.”
Jumaa inhaled, as though steeling himself for his next words.
“Beyond the extreme the
re is the Shararaa.”
“His last word,” I said, staring at the corpse on the chair.
“That is correct. The Shararaa have been around as long as I can remember. They are limited in numbers but have become increasingly dangerous. They believe Sudan should develop no relationship with the infidel West. History has linked the worst of the political and religious violence that has occurred over the last twenty years to these terrorists.”
“If you know all this, so must the government,” said Greatrex. “Why don’t they stop them?”
“The government’s situation has always been precarious. They fear reprisals from the Islamic population if they crack down on the Shararaa, not to mention retaliation from the group itself.”
“We’ve seen the violence that these people cause firsthand,” I said.
“The members of the Shararaa are brothers. They are bonded through an ancient blood ritual. Their creed is vengeance without compromise. I suspect they’ve been planning to kidnap your vice president from the time his visit was announced.”
Jumaa took a moment to glance across the room before waving a hand at the dead man.
“These people are not angry, impetuous rebels. The brothers of the Shararaa are highly intelligent, highly organized, and well connected in government circles. They will comprehend the ramifications of their actions.”
“And they are?” I asked.
“They’ll be certain that the West, your government in particular, will not negotiate. Their plan will be to gain strength and build momentum.”
“What do you think they’ll do, Jumaa?” asked Greatrex.
“It is my belief, and I am sorry to say this, but I’m positive that a publicized execution of Vice President Blake is inevitable. Most likely within forty-eight hours.”
Jumaa’s words hung heavy in the air.
I broke the silence. “Jumaa, you seem to know a lot about these people.”