Death in the Congo: Book 5 in the Dan Stone series

by David Nees

  Zhang’s last challenge was to neutralize some of the warlords. This was a harder task. Not only did alliances and power levels change, the warlords were hard men to deal with. They were violent, tyrannical, and brutal. They were not men inclined to compromise or long-term vision. They had come to power through force, and whatever their ideology had been, it now took second place to their drive for money.

  A wild card was the ADF, the Allied Democratic Forces. Zhang didn’t know who they were allied with, and they were not very approachable. Jamil Mukulu, an ultraconservative Muslim, had formed the group in Uganda. They had been driven out of Uganda and regrouped in Eastern DRC, especially in the North Kivu province. There he had achieved a semi-autonomous state with its own security force, prison, clinics, and schools. The schools were strict in their indoctrination of the children.

  Early on, the Mobutu government helped arm the group to fight Ugandan incursion into the DRC. Now they posed a substantial threat to the government’s control over the region. With outside funding from the Saudis, they presented a dangerous threat.

  Zhang had little hope of winning them over. And their increasing attacks on civilians, following a more jihadist strategy of killing and forcefully converting the population, had brought the UN into the situation. This created complications, but if the UN could keep the ADF on the defensive, and if Zhang could get a powerful warlord under his control, he could advance his plan without worrying about the ADF. It felt like a lot of “ifs” to Zhang.

  Zhang’s compound, where he stayed when he was not in his office in Goma, was a large estate north of the city. He had purchased it from a wealthy Englishman who had moved away as the region had become more unstable in the nineties with the many revolutions going on. It had remained empty for some years and had deteriorated, but Zhang was restoring it.

  The villa sat on a hillside overlooking a large valley. The grounds had been cleared with five acres of open grass before the forest closed in. The estate had a sizeable coffee plantation which had become overgrown. Zhang was slowly bringing it back to productivity. There was an extensive garden growing vegetables and fruits for use on the estate. Part of the way down the gentle slope Zhang had leveled the ground for a landing pad. Zhang’s helicopter sat there ready for him to use.

  A large staff of Congolese servants attended to the operation of the plantation, which allowed Zhang to live like a colonial baron of the nineteenth century. He was not ignorant of the irony that represented while working to create a more modern version of colonial subjection.

  This morning he was taking a trip. The helicopter flew him and three of his security team into the jungle to the northwest towards Maiko National Park. They landed at a remote clearing and were met by soldiers from a large rebel group. They led him through the jungle to the encampment of their commander.

  Four hours later, they arrived. General Jian Zhang was escorted into a house built in the compound. His men remained outside, disarmed and guarded by the warlord’s men. The general sat at a wooden table across from Joseph Amunazele Mputu, the leader of the rebel group. He was once full of ideals for an independent state in Eastern DRC with him controlling the resources, not letting them get into the hands of the politicians in Kinshasa or the exploiters from neighboring Rwanda or Europe. Now he was a man driven less by those lofty thoughts and more by money. General Zhang took comfort in that. He could understand and manipulate such a man. An idealist, though, was harder to control.

  “You want me to turn ownership of my mines over to you and receive a share of their income. I already get all of their income now. Why would I want to do that?” He spoke in French.

  Joseph Amunazele Mputu was a sharp-boned man. Not skinny, but his bones seemed to stand out, elbows, shoulders, and probably his knees, thought Zhang. He dressed in brown khakis—pants and shirt—with a black beret on his head marked by a medallion signifying his rank as commander. There was a scar running down the side of his neck, probably from someone trying to cut his throat in some fight. His hands were long-fingered and strong with thick nails that, by themselves, looked like they could inflict damage on someone.

  “As I explained, the share you will receive will be worth more than the whole of what you now control.”

  “You come here and think you can direct us Africans? We are to give up our resources to you? In exchange for the crumbs from your table? That is what our colonial masters did to us. No more.”

  His tone was flat, almost emotionless, like he was reciting a text by rote.

  “General Mputu,” Zhang used the unofficial title that Mputu had given himself, “we aren’t taking your resources. We are offering to develop them more fully than you could ever do. We have the capital to invest in the refining technology. Now you send the ore to Rwanda and they do the refining. They get much more from your resources than you do.”

  “And the government will let you do this? We are at war with the government. We want to have local control over our region, our land.”

  “Yet the UN is here, getting in your way. And you know more FARDC troops will come eventually. The government is going to gain more control over the region. Plus, you have to keep fighting the ADF, which has a different agenda. They want sharia law established. They would kill you as an infidel if they captured you.”

  “I am not afraid of my enemies. I have powerful spirits to protect me. They bring me recruits and hide us from our foes.”

  Zhang smiled slightly. “You kidnap children and turn them into soldiers. That won’t make the people love you.”

  Mputu laughed. “Who said I wanted to be loved. They must fear me…and obey me. You can’t achieve what you want without my help. But you must have more to succeed. You must have the cooperation of the government. How will you convince them? They already get a nice income from these mines.”

  “I have someone on my side. He understands the future and wants to be one who profits from it.” Zhang leaned forward. “We are not here in Africa to give handouts to all these countries. You are a smart man. You understand that. We are here to get control over these resources. Unlike your prior colonial masters, we want to pay you for that. We don’t want to enslave you. We don’t want to colonize you. We want to secure the rights to develop your resources. It will make you and your country great.”

  “And you are very rich? No?”

  “I will pay well, which will make you rich. As I have said, your share will be larger than you can achieve on your own.”

  Joseph Amunazele Mputu stood up. “I will think on this. I will give you an answer in two days. You come back then.”

  General Zhang stood up. “I’ll go now. I have many things to do to make our plan a reality. I work even while you are still thinking about my offer.”

  They shook hands and walked outside. Mputu’s men led them back on the trail, barely visible to Zhang’s eyes. In two hours, they emerged in the clearing where the helicopter waited. It had been a long hike, two hours each way, but it was the only way General Zhang could get to General Mputu’s camp. He knew that at any moment Mputu could move his camp to another location in the vast jungle. It would be impossible for any forces to find him, if he didn’t want to be found.

  He would have to be patient and continue on the other fronts. General Zhang was not so much a racist as a national chauvinist. He believed in China’s destiny to be the dominant force in the world, surpassing the U.S. which he thought was stupidly abandoning Africa. He would woo these crude people to secure what was needed for his country. And when China had done that well enough, the world would wake up and have to do China’s bidding in order to maintain their standard of living. No, China didn’t want to colonize Africa. China wanted to make serfs of the entire world.

  Chapter 8

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  L eaving Kikwit, they drove along as before, with the road fully paved and traveling at eighty kph. But within an hour the pavement gave out. They transitioned onto a dirt roadbed that had been gro
omed by a grader. It was broad and smooth. There were ruts made by passing vehicles, probably heavy trucks, after rain had softened the hard-packed clay. It would not be long until they became deeper and harder to drive through. Along the side were concrete ditches to carry the water from the surface.

  “Looks like a proper road is in progress. This isn’t so bad,” Marcus said.

  “Hopefully they got the crowning right and the ditches can handle the amount of rain that falls,” Dan said.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Santu said. “But it is progress.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Mr. Fixer. You shouldn’t bet against your own country,” Roland said.

  “You need to live here for more than a few days before giving me opinions like that,” Santu replied.

  They passed crews pouring more concrete ditches as they drove along. Soon, however, the improved road work gave out, and they were on ungraded dirt, which got increasingly potholed. The average speed dropped to under 20 kph. There were smoother sections with hard-packed dirt where they could get up to forty or more, but then they quickly had to slow down. They hit soft sections of powdered clay that almost swallowed up the tires.

  “This is why we brought the recovery tracks,” Dan said as he worked the wheel.

  In some areas, the heavy trucks had worn down two tracks so deep the Toyota could not use them. It would get high-centered on the ridge in the middle. Dan had to muscle the vehicle off to one side.

  The day wore on. Dan noticed the engine temperature beginning to climb and turned off the air conditioner.

  “Hey,” Roland spoke up from the back seat. “What’d ya do that for? It’s bloody hot out there.”

  “Engine’s starting to overheat. I’m reducing the load on it.”

  “That ain’t gonna help,” Roland said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Roll down your window.”

  All four windows came down, filling the cab with a rush of thick, hot air. They could smell the countryside, the grasses, the dirt, occasionally the fetid odor of an animal corral when they passed some huts along the road.

  “Doesn’t help much,” Roland said.

  Dan ignored him.

  At the next river crossing, Dan pulled over to the side.

  “Going to let the engine cool and then see if we can add more water.”

  Everyone got out. It was not any cooler outside of the vehicle, but they didn’t feel so closed in. Roland stared at the small river.

  “Crocodiles in there?” he asked Santu.

  “I can’t guarantee one way or the other.”

  “What the hell good are you? You’re supposed to know these things.”

  “If I say no and you get your leg bitten off, you’ll be upset with me. If I say yes and no one goes down there and the engine overheats, you will all blame me.”

  Roland turned to Dan. “Let’s just leave him here.”

  “Be nice,” Dan said.

  “Well, I suggest Santu fill the water jug.” They were carrying a five-gallon plastic jug for just such a situation.

  “Sure. Send the black man,” Santu said with feigned irritation in his voice. “He’s expendable. We don’t want to risk the precious white mans’ lives.”

  Marcus stood there smiling. “We figure you’re closer to being an expert than we are. Plus, you’re the fixer, so fix us some water,” he said.

  Roland held out the plastic jug with a big grin on his face. “Don’t worry, Little Buddy, I’ll protect you with my gun.” He pulled out his 9mm and showed it to Santu.

  “Don’t be flashing that around,” Dan said.

  “Hell, he’s already seen one. Back in Kinshasa. We wouldn’t be good security if we went around unarmed.”

  “Time to go Santu,” Roland said as he walked to the edge of the slope down to the river.

  Santu’s eyes were showing his fear. He took the jug out of Roland’s hand and started down the slope.

  “I’m told that you never see them coming so it may not help to look around. They’re ambush predators,” Roland said.

  “Don’t freak him out. He’s already scared,” Marcus replied.

  “City boy,” Roland said dismissively. “How’s he going to help us out in the bush?”

  “Roland, you see anything, you shoot it. I don’t want to lose Santu,” Dan said. He and Marcus were now standing on the edge of the slope, watching Santu’s progress.

  Santu quietly made his way down the bank. It was mostly bare dirt with sparse vegetation growing. Dan could see him focused on the water. There was little worry about anything attacking from the bank with so little cover.

  At the edge of the water, Santu took a deep breath and squatted down. He reached out and sank the jug into the stream. Everyone could see his head moving, his eyes darting back and forth, vainly trying to see under the opaque brown water.

  As he began to pull the jug out of the water, Roland threw a clod of dirt over Santu’s head, into the river. There was a loud “plop”. Santu leaped back from the edge, his legs pumping furiously to propel him up the slope.

  Roland was above laughing. Santu turned to glare at him.

  “You are a white pig. Uncultured and uncouth,” he said with all the dignity he could muster through his panic.

  At the same time Dan started clapping, Marcus joined in. As Santu completed his climb up the bank, Roland was now clapping.

  “I’m sorry, Little Buddy. I just wanted to see how good your reactions were. Damn, you were fast…and you didn’t drop the water jug.”

  “Excellent job, Santu. I apologize for Roland. His jokes get a bit harsh sometimes,” Dan said.

  “He can take it,” Roland said. “Shit, I wouldn’t have gone down there for a hundred-dollar bill.” He turned to Santu. “You’re a brave man…quick as well.”

  He gave Santu a big smile. “We friends?”

  “I have to think this over,” Santu replied. “Right now, my heart is ready to come out of my chest.”

  “We have to wait a bit more before I can open the radiator cap. Don’t want to spray coolant everywhere and I want to depressurize the system before I put more water in the expansion tank.”

  “I’m more worried about the bridge. It looks a bit sketchy to me,” Marcus said.

  “The bridge is okay,” Santu said. “Heavy trucks use it. Some of the bridges to Goma may look bad, but they carry much heavier loads than us.”

  “With little margin of safety,” Marcus said.

  After the engine cooled, Dan topped up the radiator and then refilled the expansion bottle. Then they inched over the bridge and continued their journey. The going was slow with the Land Cruiser creeping up and over the humps and ridges and easing down into the wallows, filled with finely ground powder.

  “You drive like an old woman,” Roland said.

  “Roland, shut the fuck up,” Marcus said over his shoulder.

  “Just trying to lighten things up to pass the time.”

  “I’m making sure that we don’t break something. This is our only transportation. If we break a tie rod or gear case, where the hell do you think we’ll get it fixed?”

  “Sorry boss,” Roland said. “Didn’t mean to upset everyone. You two are really sensitive. Not like my buddy, Santu. He’s a real man. Challenges crocodiles. He’s fearless.”

  “Maybe foolish,” Santu said. “I didn’t feel very brave.”

  Ten minutes later Roland shouted for them to stop. He got out and ran into the brush.

  “What’s up with him?” Dan said.

  “Diarrhea,” Marcus said. “I’d bet on it.”

  “Better hand him some toilet paper,” Dan said. I brought some along. It’s in the back.”

  Marcus looked at Santu, who shook his head. “Not my job. I’m a fixer, not a servant.” Dan could see the adamant look in his eyes.

  Marcus sighed and got out of the Toyota. He went to the back and found the paper and headed for the bush.

  “Hang on, buddy. I’ve got some TP for you.”
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br />   Roland came out of the grass a few minutes later. He looked pale despite the sun.

  “Thought I was going to crap my insides out,” he said as he got back in the SUV.

  “Drink some water,” Dan said.

  “Sensitive stomach?” Marcus asked.

  “Wait. It’s coming for you as well,” Roland said.

  Further on they came across one of the overloaded trucks mired in a large flooded area. It was too large to be labeled a pothole. Dan stopped well behind the truck, which was listing to one side. It looked in danger of tipping over or dumping out its load at any moment. The many people who had crowded on it with their goods were now standing on the side watching what the driver and his assistant were doing.

  “These truck drivers always have an assistant with them,” Santu said with an air of authority. “He is to look after the truck and scout the best way through these places,”

  “Looks like he didn’t do a good job,” Roland said.

  The men got out to watch the scene. A truck came up behind them and the driver took a path to the left. His assistant jumped out and waded into the water, testing its depth. His hands flashed right, left, or straight to direct the driver. The truck had two rear axles.

  Dan watched and then remarked, “That truck’s got six-wheel drive.”

  “Six? How so,” asked Marcus.

  “Both rear axles, that’s four wheels and the front wheels are also engaged. Watch them churn up the mud.”

  Sure enough, the truck slowly labored forward, all the wheels steadily clawing away at the muddy bottom. A small bow wave curled ahead of the massive machine as it eased its way past the bogged-down truck.

  “They going to leave them?” Roland asked.

  As if in answer, when the six-wheel drive truck got to firm ground, it stopped. Both the driver and the assistant attached a towing strap and walked it back towards the stalled truck. That truck’s crew walked their strap forward, and they hooked them together. After a quick conference, the two crews got back in their trucks and started. With the help from the first truck, the second truck began to move forward. Both drivers avoided spinning their tires, letting them grab traction without digging themselves into a hole. Slowly, steadily, the truck emerged from the massive hole and the men retrieved their straps. Everyone climbed back on board and both trucks lumbered off like gigantic beasts of burden.