Ghost of Africa

by Chuck Van Soye

  Behind him, established deep into the heaviest growth of the rainforest, he could barely make out several groups of older women and teenage girls. Most appeared to be seated or lying on the ground.

  Bret and Zhu started to walk toward their crates. Zuluka barked a command at a nearby soldier wearing short pants and a shirt bearing Sergeant’s insignia. Armed with an AK-47, he promptly walked into their path, spoke a few unintelligible words, and displayed the universal stop signal by raising a vertical hand, palm forward. It was clear that Zuluka didn’t want them to mess with the crates just yet. So they simply stood around, awaiting whatever developed.

  Zuluka walked to the far left side of the clearing, and entered the big tent. Inside, Jacob Kunga looked up from his makeshift desk and said, “Welcome back, General Zuluka. We’ve missed your steadying hand amidst the men. When you’re not around, discipline starts to falter. So our force’s size has diminished a bit. I had to dispatch seven of your soldiers.”

  “Dispatch?”

  “Yes, I had them shot. Well, you’re here now, so I’m confident we’ll not have to do that again. I trust you’ve completed your assignment?”

  “Yes, sir. Mia was a tremendous help. She uncovered an arms dealer that is ready to do business with you. I purchased an FIM-92E Stinger from him for $60,000, and he has brought it along with him for your inspection. And possibly a demonstration.”

  Kunga got up from his chair, walked over to Zuluka, put his arm around him and said, “Well, let us go meet this arms dealer and see what he has to offer. What did you say his name was?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  LRA Encampment, Foret de Ngoto, CAR

  Kunga and Zuluka exited the command tent and walked towards Bret and Zhu. Bret stifled the impulse to stand at attention. Out of the corner of his mouth, he softly said to Zhu, “Crunch time.”

  Bret had expected that when he met the infamous leader of the LRA, he’d be wearing a military uniform befitting a commanding general. Instead, the middle-age man walking alongside Zuluka was about six inches shorter, sported a corpulent build, and was wearing short khaki pants, a matching khaki shirt open at the collar, and tan canvas ankle boots. Dreadlocks hanging down to his shoulders framed his battle-scarred, deep-black Ugandan face.

  “I am Jacob Kunga. Who are you?”

  Bret unintentionally cleared his throat and said, “I’m Steffan Doevendans, and this man is Zhu, my bodyguard.”

  Zuluka commented to Kunga in Sangho, “The bodyguard carries no weapons.”

  “Speak in English, General. We want our guests to feel comfortable.”

  “So, Mr. Doevendans, I understand that you deal in weapons. It must be a very profitable business to bring you into the African jungle. Right into the hideout of a notorious outlawed army.”

  “Dealing in arms is definitely most profitable, Mr. Ku . . . “

  “Please, call me Jacob. You were saying . . . ”

  “Jacob, I’m addicted to gambling, so on those rare occasions when I have a string of bad luck, I need a significant pool of replacement funds.”

  “Ah, yes, we all have our addictions. Mine is notoriety. Which brings us to my interest in the SAM weapon you have brought with you.”

  “Jacob, I bring you the opportunity to buy a number of FIM-92E Stinger MANPADS.”

  “MANPADS? . . . . Explain.”

  “The letters stand for Man-Portable Air-Defense System. The FIM-92E Stinger version developed by the Americans is superior to all other systems. Including those by the Russians, Chinese and Japanese. It’s better because of its superior 26,000-ft. range and its much lighter 34-lb. weight.”

  “I see. Yes, the longer range is especially more desirable. I’d like to examine the Stinger you brought with you.”

  “Give me a few minutes, Jacob, and Zhu and I’ll open the crates and assemble the component parts.”

  Thanks to the practice in their Noubangui hotel room, they put the two halves of the missile system together in short order.

  Displaying the assembled weapon system with both hands just a few feet from Kunga, Bret said, “Jacob, this is the Stinger. You cannot see the 22-pound missile itself, because the launcher cradle is sealed against the weather at both ends. Zhu is holding another key component, the BCU, which attaches to the gripstock just prior to firing. It’s a battery that powers target acquisition, plus a supply of Argon gas that’s injected into the missile’s seeker to cool it to operating temperature just before firing.”

  Kunga reaches out to grasp the Stinger. Bret steps a half-step back and gently cautions Kunga.

  “Jacob, be careful! If not handled properly, it could be dangerous. Let me show you first how it works, and how to hold it safely.”

  “Proceed.”

  Bret explained, “I first put my right hand on the gripstock, then lift the system to my shoulder without touching any of the launchers firing components. I then place my left hand beneath the frame to help support and steady the system. Now I press down the uncage latch at front of the launcher, click the unlock switch, and lastly attach the BCU unit. Quickly, I move my head forward to align my eye with the weapon’s sight, elevate the unit, then squeeze and hold the trigger while tracking my target.”

  “That’s all there is to it. Once the trigger is actuated, a small ejection motor launches the missile a safe distance away, and then the main solid-fuel motor takes over, accelerating it to two-and-a- half-times the speed of sound. The missile’s guidance system then navigates the missile to the target where it explodes.”

  “I’m impressed, Steffan. I want eight more FIM-92E Stingers. How soon can you deliver them?”

  “I can ship them as soon as my bank tells me you’ve deposited $480,000 into the Dove International Security bank account in Colombia. Where do you want them shipped?”

  “To my warehouse in Bangui. I’ll give you the address before you leave.”

  “As good as done, Jacob.”

  “Steffan, that Stinger in your hands belongs to me, correct?”

  “Yes sir, General Zuluka already paid me for it.”

  “Then if it’s mine, I want to fire it myself. Will you help me? Walk me through the steps you just demonstrated.”

  “What target are you going to destroy? You can’t just shoot it up into an empty sky. The missile looks for heat. We’d have to create a target that’s hot and is at least three hundred yards away.”

  “I see. Hmm, a short walk will bring us to the edge of the tree line, Steffan. Beyond is barren dry land, except for a few solo trees in the distance. Let’s go there and see whether one of those trees would be a suitable target.”

  About ten minutes later, Jacob and several dozen of his fascinated men from the clearing led Bret and Zhu to the edge of the forest. Along the way, both Americans unobtrusively inserted their ear plugs. Bret also installed the LRAD battery into its slot on the launcher.

  Jacob suggested, “How about that big tree on the left? It looks like it’s about a half mile away.”

  “That would be a fine target Jacob, but remember, the missile is a heat seeker.”

  Kunga took a few steps away, and spoke to one of his men. The man took off, running back towards the encampment clearing.

  “Very shortly, Steffan, one of my men will run to that tree carrying a gasoline-soaked rag, climb it, and set its crown afire.”

  “Great idea, Jacob; that should work fine. Now let me help you position this launcher on your shoulder. Next press the uncage latch.”

  “Here?”

  “Not quite. Let me press it for you. Click that unlock switch. Now hold the launcher still while I attach the BCU.”

  By then, the tree top was ablaze, and the soldier that climbed back down was running back.

  “Jacob, wait! Do not squeeze the trigger yet. Any man standing behind us or in the wrong place may be injured by the firing’s exhaust. I want all your men in camp to come and stand safely as a group to your right, in front of Zhu.”

  Kunga barked a
couple commands, and several dozen men soon stood next to him, right in front of the LRAD speaker.

  “Okay, it’s safe for you to fire the missile now. Remember; keep squeezing until the missile destroys the target.”

  Kunga hesitated, got the burning tree in his sight, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  BRRRRRAAAACCCCKKKK!!! An ear-splitting intense sound explosion erupted from the LRAD’s speaker. It lasted 3.4 seconds, and would have continued longer if the dummy FIM-92E launcher hadn’t vibrated itself loose, and bounced right out of Kunga’s clenched fist and trigger finger when his stunned body hit the ground.

  Several dozen men to the right of Kunga were simultaneously screaming a chorus of pain and confusion as they ran in circles, fell to their knees, or on their faces, all while holding both hands over their ears. Those soldiers in the nearby bush to the left and further back in the clearing were violently shaking their heads and rubbing their hurting ears, but still standing. Bret and Zhu removed their ear plugs, and while they could then hear, mild ringing persisted.

  Temporary mass confusion soon gave way to realization of what had just happened, and several LRA soldiers attacked Bret and Zhu, some firing as they came. Bret was hit and went down. Zhu had tripped in his attempt to get ready to fight, and fell next to a soldier, whose ears were bleeding. He grabbed the soldier’s AK-47, got to his knees and started to return fire.

  He saw one of his targets drop, but then other soldiers were falling dead as well. He raised his gaze to see a dozen or more Seals in black, firing as they descended via lines hanging below a Blackhawk chopper hovering just above the canopy. Rescue appeared imminent.

  He stood and ran to Bret’s side. Blood was spurting from an upper-leg wound. Zhu tried to stop it by applying hand pressure, but was not able. A Seal suddenly appeared, and in short order applied a tourniquet at Bret’s thigh.

  The staccato sound of dozens of firing guns near and far in the forest, brush and beyond indicated the battle had been joined by Special Force troops from the two Chinooks.

  “Where’s Kunga?” asked Bret as he sat up. The Stinger launcher was right there where it fell, but Kunga was gone.

  “There he is, running into the deep forest behind the women!” shouted Zhu. “He’s trying to escape! I’m gonna go catch him.”

  Zhu took off after him, running hard.

  “No!” shouted Bret. “Zhu don’t do it. It’s too dangerous; come back here!”

  Too late. Zhu disappeared into the deep forest.

  Bret said to the Seal bandaging his leg, “That dude’s been wanted by the International Criminal Court for decades, but he’s always escaped capture, like a ghost. Could you get your chopper to get involved to help and protect Zhu?”

  In a flash, the Seal radioed Commander Zeke, who directed the Blackhawk pilot to tail Kunga via infrared. A couple of other Seals started running into the forest to help as well.

  Bret then shakily stood up as the Seal ran off to rejoin the gun battle. At that moment, Zuluka came crashing out of the brush, shouting curses in Sangho and French, and attempted to wrestle him to the ground. Weak from loss of blood, Bret knew he was a dead man if he fell, so he used whatever energy he still had to place a well-directed knee into the General’s groin, then grabbed the nearby launcher and smashed his opponent’s face. Zuluka screamed and fell onto his back. Bret used every remaining ounce of strength to smash that prone head a few more whacks before falling to his knees, and passing out.

  “My, my, Mr. Lee. I never knew you had it in you. The Green Berets had to take Zuluka away on a stretcher. He’s really gonna need some serious plastic surgery.”

  Bret opened his eyes and looked up to see Tall Dog’s smiling face. “Now you show up, TD! We could have used your help once that LRAD blasted off.”

  Helping Bret sit up, TD said, “Well, I’m here, and you can certainly use my help right now.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “My rental helicopter landed right behind the Blackhawk out there in that field after most of the shooting stopped.”

  “So?”

  “A big-shot Seal named Zeke asked me if I could help you walk to his chopper.”

  “Why the chopper?”

  “Because they’re taking you to a hospital aboard some ship out there in the Gulf of Guinea. Gonna fix your leg, or maybe cut it off.”

  “Could be worse, I guess. TD, you guys are worrying about me. I’m worrying about Zhu? He chased Kunga into the jungle.”

  “You don’t need to worry anymore; Zhu’s sitting in my helicopter as we speak.”

  “Huh, how’s that possible? He just barely left.”

  “I guess you’ve been unconscious for close to a half hour. Zhu caught up with Kunga and started beating him up. If the Seals hadn’t shown up when they did, he’d probably be dead.”

  “What’s Zhu doing on your rental bird?”

  “I agreed to take him back to the airport with me.”

  “Got it. Since I’m going to some hospital for awhile, he’s gonna catch a flight home.”

  “Nope. He’s booked a flight to Monte Carlo. Says he’s gotta take care of some banking business. And . . . ,” said TD with a smirk, “he plans to meet up with two lady friends of his he can’t wait to see again. I think he said their names were Celeste and Gabrielle.”

  “So, get up, wrap your arm around my neck, and let’s go.”

  Meanwhile, for a half mile in all directions, surviving LRA soldiers in the forest, brush and grassland were throwing up their hands in surrender. The Green Berets rounded dozens up, binding their hands with tie wraps, and field-dressing their wounds. Only an occasional distant gunshot could be heard. Wounded Seals and Berets were being evacuated in the Chinooks.

  Aboard the Blackhawk, Bret sat quietly, in considerable pain, watching his leg bandage turn from white to red, while awaiting the shore-to-ship transfer. After about fifteen minutes, another individual swathed in bloody head bandages, was lifted in and seated next to Bret. Then all uninjured Seals boarded, and the pilot took the chopper to flight.

  “You don’t look too good,” Bret said to his new seatmate. “Did you get shot in the face?”

  Pointing to his ears and shaking his head ‘No,’ he said, “Speak louder, I can barely hear you.”

  Bret shouted, “Did you get shot in the face?”

  “No, Steffan . . . your bodyguard beat the crap out of me in the jungle.”

  The words shocked Bret’s thoughts. What did he just say? Yikes, he’s wearing handcuffs!

  He stared hard at the bandaged face in unbelief. It was Kunga!

  His face. His face. Bret couldn’t stop staring. Kunga’s face slowly turned silvery, melting into shimmering nothingness . . . bloody head bandages floating away. . .

  Bret’s body slumped to the side, then lifelessly slid to the floor.

  Seal medics aboard jumped into action.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Walter Reed Military Medical Center, Bethesda, MD

  “Look! His right thumb just twitched,” said Julien excitedly.

  “Don’t get your hopes up just yet,” suggested the doctor who had been holding a stethoscope on Bret’s chest. ”Some body movements in a case like this are just nervous reactions to the shock he’s experiencing from the loss of so much blood. We can never tell how this will end.”

  “I just saw his eyelids flutter,” said Chu. “Bret, honey, can you hear me?”

  Bret grunted, and slowly opened both eyes.

  “Oh, baby, (choking back sobs, through tears of happiness), we thought we’d lost you. Oh, thank you God.”

  “Huh? Where am I?”

  “Walter Reed hospital, honey.”

  “How did I get here? I was just in a Blackhawk with Kunga next to me.”

  “That was four days ago,” said TD. “You’ve been comatose ever since. When you passed out from loss of blood on the chopper, the Seals flew you to a hospital ship where they gave you a tr
ansfusion and sewed you up. Then they put you on a plane to Andrews AFB, stopping in Brazil en route.”

  “You’re one lucky guy, Bret. You almost died.”

  “Kunga, what about Kunga?”

  “Don’t worry. By now he’s safely tucked away in the Haaglanden Penitentiary, in South Holland, awaiting trial by the ICC for war crimes and crimes against humanity.”

  “By the way, we’ve heard that he’s totally and permanently deaf, for whatever time he has left on this earth,” concluded TD.

  “Thanks to Chu for that!” interjected Julien. “The LRAD was not only her idea, but she directed how both it and the dummy Stinger should be manufactured.”

  Bret, now partially propped into a sitting position by the duty nurse, added, “Not only that, but she used social media and Wikipedia to tease Kunga’s people into ‘finding’ Steffan and Zhu, and bringing us to their hideout.”

  “Speaking of Zhu, has anybody heard from him?"

  “I have,” said Julien. “He phoned me, said he was having a wonderful time, and asked if he could use some of Bret’s gambling winnings to stay in Monte Carlo for another week, pay for his wedding to a girl named Celeste, and for a week-long honeymoon. Also to buy tickets for two to fly home to Wisconsin. I told him to try to get along on twenty grand, but if he needed more to call.

  “Doc, when can I take him home?” asked Chu.

  “Give us a few more days to get him nourished and strong enough to be on his feet,” said the doctor. “By this weekend for sure.”

  “Great,” said Julien. “Bret, Jim Baker and I are having a luncheon meeting next week, and would like you to join us, if you feel up to it.”

  “You’re both dreaming if you think I’m going to get anywhere’s near you two. I’m done playing super spy. I’ll never feel up to it. No sir. I’m Bret Lee, college professor from now on. Sorry, but Chu and I aren’t interested. Right, Babe?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But we really accomplished something meaningful for the world, don’t you think?”

  Bret didn’t hear her last few words. He’d buried his head between two pillows.