by Peter Nealen
But Goukouni didn’t know that. Or at least, Lung Kai hoped that he didn’t.
For a long moment, the General just stared angrily at the Chinese upstart, covered in dirt and smelling of sweat and gunsmoke. But finally, he seemed to collect himself, and said, with what dignity he could muster, “As an ally, I will be glad to help our Chinese friends in any way they need, especially if it involves the security of Chad.”
It was a nice dodge, but both men knew it was meaningless if any of this became public knowledge. For one thing, while Chad had profited nicely from China in the form of loans and debt relief, they were hardly allies, in no small part due to the presence of American Special Forces in the west of the country. And for another, nothing of this operation was to be acknowledged by Beijing, or had anything to do with Chadian security.
But Lung Kai didn’t care. He didn’t care about the long-term repercussions if this got out, nor did he especially care about the ethics of Goukouni’s greed. He’d pay the man more if that was what it took.
“Thank you,” he said. “I need ground forces and air cover to come with me, to move on a group of Western terrorists operating to the north. Meanwhile, I suggest your security forces move on these houses here.” He handed Goukouni an overhead photo taken by one of his drones, of a small group of container-built shelters near the airport. “I have reliable information that the terrorists have a support element housed there. Tell your men to proceed with caution, and take no chances. If they have to kill everyone there, so be it.” It was preferable, in fact.
Goukouni made a show of looking thoughtful, unwilling to simply agree to follow a foreigner’s instructions. He was a General, after all. Lung Kai fought down his impatience. Goukouni could refuse to cooperate if he pushed too hard. And the weight of Beijing behind him would only go so far.
“It will take some time to assemble the necessary forces,” Goukouni said heavily. “But I can set the police to clearing those shelters immediately. It would not do for foreign terrorists to be given shelter here.”
Lung Kai nodded sharply, turned on his heel, and walked out. Goukouni was hardly trustworthy, but at the same time, he trusted that he knew the man’s character well enough to expect that he’d act, at least for the moment. If the Americans started looking this way, Lung Kai and his men would have to fade away, but the Americans generally weren’t looking for Chinese threats these days. They were focused on savages like Al Qaeda, Boko Haram, and IS.
So much the better.
***
Brannigan and Price forged their way up the last low hill before the Humanity Front’s base camp. The vegetation and rocks were thicker, but he still felt exposed as hell, hearing the faint buzz of the Front’s drones overhead.
He was hurting, too. He’d been pushing hard for a while, ever since accepting the Khadarkh job, and his body wasn’t young anymore. Even so, he took some small pride in the fact that Price, who clearly had access to the finest gyms and personal trainers, was struggling to keep up, was bathed in sweat, and panting.
Flanagan, on the other hand, while just as soaked and caked in dust, looked like he was bored. He was younger, sure, but he was still putting Brannigan to shame.
They got low as they neared the crest of the hill, finally crawling to the final vantage point.
If anything, the camp looked even more sinister and threatening than it had before. Several of the Hawkei armored vehicles were gone, and one of the helos had just landed, its rotors still turning where it squatted on the pad. He had to assume that its new aura of menace was a combination of knowing for certain that they were the enemy and the equal certainty that now they were going to have to figure out how to get in there and put their operation out of commission.
“Damn, that’s going to be a tough nut to crack,” Wade muttered. His pale blue eyes were fixed on the defenses.
“Hell, just getting close enough with those drones in the sky is going to be next to impossible,” Flanagan said.
Brannigan didn’t say anything but just studied the camp, squinting against the glare of the midday sun. He looked at the camp, the terrain, and then he looked at the sky.
“Getting close might get a bit more workable, after all,” he said, pointing to the smear of brown against the northern horizon. “It’s a couple hours off, but that looks like a dust storm to me. Might give us some cover.” But as he peered down at the camp, he knew it wasn’t going to be enough. Marines had fought in dust storms during the invasion of Iraq. If the Humanity Front’s people were remotely prepared, they’d be able to cope with a dust storm if they were being attacked.
They needed something else.
“We need a diversion,” he said. He looked at Price. “Can you redirect your react teams to hit that convoy on the way back? That might draw enough of them out of there to give us a chance.”
Price, his face dusty and streaked with sweat, peered down at the camp. “It’s possible,” he said. “It might throw some of the timing off, but if we can empty some of the security out of there…”
At that moment, his radio squawked. He listened, and his face creased with a combination of anger and weariness.
“We might be out of time,” he said. “The helos are in contact with the react teams at Abeche, and they say they’re under attack by Chadian security forces.” He listened, and his face got even more grave. “And they say that there are vehicles with heavy machineguns out on the airstrip, and that they’re not getting clearance from Abeche Airport to land.”
He stared down at the camp below them. “We’re on our own, gentlemen.”
Chapter 19
Flanagan lay next to Curtis, scanning the Humanity Front’s camp as the dust storm off the Sahara started to loom larger on the northern horizon. Brannigan and Price had decided to call the helos away from the airport; they weren’t going to do those guys on Price’s payroll any good if they got shredded by ground fire trying to land. Price had a FARP, a Forward Arming and Resupply Point, set up out in the desert, not far from his actual base camp, and the birds had diverted there. From what Flanagan had heard, it was going to be tight; they were getting critically low on fuel.
Curtis was fidgeting, but Flanagan knew that was entirely normal. The little man was plenty high-energy, and just sitting still never quite agreed with him. This despite the fact that he’d been on many, many missions that required quiet and absolute stillness. It was a testament to the deeper reserves of discipline—that weren’t always readily apparent—in the man.
He was glancing back down the slope to the covered and concealed position where Brannigan and Price were hammering out the last details of the plan while they waited for the birds to come back to insert the diversionary team. A frown was creasing his face.
“What?” Flanagan asked, seeing all of this out of the corner of his eye.
“What do you mean, ‘What?’” Curtis demanded, turning back toward the target camp. “Don’t try to pretend you’re some kind of mind reader, Joe.”
“But I am,” Flanagan said, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. “If I wasn’t, I’d just think you were a dunce without an ounce of self-control, and would never have stuck my neck out for you so many times.”
Curtis stared at him, and Flanagan fought to keep the grin off his face, helped by his beard.
“Now, that’s mean, Joseph,” Curtis said. “That’s just mean. Seriously, that’s just below the belt.”
“Seriously, though, what is it?” Flanagan asked. “You’re twitchier than usual.”
Curtis glanced back down the hill again. “I don’t know,” he said, getting serious. “It just seems kinda like we’re biting off more than we can chew. Shouldn’t we wait until Roger and the rest can get out here? We’re at half numbers, no belt-feds, no heavy weapons, and we’re about to take on what looks like at least a company-strength element. One with armored vehicles and helos.”
“I’d say it’s a matter of necessity,” Flanagan said. “And I imagine that the h
elos at that FARP are picking up some explosives, at the very least. The Colonel wouldn’t have okayed this without them. He’s not stupid; he’s not going to put us up against armor with nothing but rifles.”
Curtis shook his head. “If we can even get into position in time,” he muttered.
“Price is supposed to have drones keeping an eye on that convoy,” Flanagan said. “He’ll know when they’re heading back.”
But Curtis didn’t seem to be placated. He just nodded toward the oncoming wall of dust and sand. “Except that they’re not going to be able to stay in the air once that hits.”
“No, they won’t,” Flanagan agreed. “Neither will the helos.” He glanced toward the west, where the FARP was supposed to be. “Yeah, it’s gonna be tight. But if we don’t move now, then these bastards are going to be able to finish what they’re doing and disappear, and we’re going to be right back to where we started.”
“And if we all get killed, then we’re even farther behind,” Curtis said. “I mean, not that it matters that much for you, but think of all the women who won’t get to know me if I die out here!”
Flanagan glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. “You mean all the women, including Sanda?”
Curtis actually winced. “You would bring her up.”
“I told you, Kevin,” Flanagan said, looking back down the hill, “she’s like the team’s little sister. Don’t screw this up. You might have to grow up and give up all the other women.”
“You’re no fun, Joe,” Kevin sulked.
“I know,” Flanagan said. But despite the banter, he frowned at the oncoming haboob. That storm was putting a sharp time limit on the op; they needed to be in position before it hit. It would offer them some advantage of concealment, but he couldn’t help but dread it, anyway. He’d been in sandstorms before. They were miserable.
“Joe,” Brannigan called softly from below. It was daylight, and they still had a klick standoff, but it never was a bad idea to stay as quiet as possible in enemy territory. Flanagan didn’t reply, but slithered down from his vantage point before getting to his feet and moving down the slope to join Brannigan and Price. The two men were sitting under a low jujube tree, bent over a small field laptop, hooked up to an expensive-looking satellite comm puck that was wired into the jujube’s branches.
“Birds are on their way,” Brannigan said. “You’ve got Curtis, Jenkins, and two of Price’s boys, including Vernon. Can’t spare anyone else. The birds should have some charges that you can use to set up your ambush.”
“The drones are showing the convoy still in place at the refugee camp,” Price said, turning the laptop around so that Flanagan could see it. Sure enough, the overhead view, slowly turning as the drone circled, showed the Humanity Front’s Hawkeis circled up in the center of the refugee camp, with small figures gathered around the boxy, unarmed vehicle. As he watched, Flanagan couldn’t help but suspect that a lot of them were being herded by the men on the outside of the crowd.
“Is there a record of their arrival?” he asked. It might not be immediately relevant from a tactical perspective, but a part of him just wanted to know, to see for sure what these people were doing.
“Actually, there is,” Price replied, minimizing the live feed. “I’ve been recording every damned thing we’ve been able to observe, once we were sure that the Humanity Front was up to no good out here.” He tapped an icon, and a video window opened. He pressed “Play.”
***
The five Hawkei armored vehicles pulled up to the refugee camp with a billowing cloud of dust and grit. The two lead and two trail vehicles were gun trucks, mounting remote-controlled CROWS turrets with HK 121 machineguns tracking back and forth, covering sectors to front, rear, and flanks. The center vehicle was clearly heavily modified, with a blocky extension on the back, not unlike a comm vehicle.
There was no security to get through. The Chadians clearly couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about the people crammed into the refugee camp. No fence, no security; the only eyes on the place were the NGO drones overhead.
The camp sprawled for well over a couple square kilometers, a disorganized jumble of filthy tents and wattle-and-daub huts. Refuse littered the ground between the wattle fencing separating shelters, and filthy children ran around between chickens and goats. The camp had been there for years, the people living there unable to go back to Darfur for fear of the Sudanese Rapid Support Force, the official paramilitary that had been formed out of the Janjaweed militias.
The refugees shied away from the rumbling armored vehicles, bristling with weapons, as they rolled into the camp, following the only avenue wide enough to accommodate their bulk. The machineguns stayed leveled, tracking across their sectors, as if the gunners were worried about resistance, despite the miserable state of the people watching furtively as they rolled by.
The convoy moved about half a kilometer into the camp before stopping. They sat there for a moment, as the refugees watched them and started to shy away, slipping back into the warren of tents and huts.
That was when the doors on the gun trucks opened, and armed men started piling out. They moved quickly, spreading out with their weapons up. They started entering tents and huts, coming out behind knots of people who had been hiding inside.
The center truck, with the large, boxy cab, was now setting up. Awnings were extended out from the sides, and figures in white lab coats started getting out. One spoke into a megaphone, addressing the frightened people being herded toward the truck by the armed men in desert camouflage. Some of them seemed to get more agitated, but were prodded forward by the men with rifles. Others appeared to relax a little, as if realizing that this was just another humanitarian aid visit, albeit with heavier than usual security.
The figures in white set up a table under one of the awnings, and the security men chivvied the refugees into line. They were relatively hands-off with the people who cooperated, but those who tried to move away were firmly put back in line.
Then, just like it was a vaccination program, the figures in white started to give injections.
***
The video came to a stop, and Price pulled the live feed back up. The vehicles were still in place, and it looked like the armed contractors, or whoever they were, were still rounding up more people for the injections. At least they hadn’t left yet, though it looked like they were starting to pull in to the vehicles a bit.
“You think that’s their biological weapons test?” Flanagan asked.
Price nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Disguise themselves as humanitarian aid workers doing ‘vaccinations,’ and nobody’s the wiser.”
“Seems like a pretty odd way of deploying bioweapons, though,” Brannigan said. “Shouldn’t they be working on delivery systems, instead of relying on their victims to line up for injections?”
“It’s a thought,” Price said. “But remember, from the reports coming from those few docs who haven’t gotten snatched or disappeared, these outbreaks are some strain of disease that’s unfamiliar. What if they’re researching some kind of new designer bug, and this is just their trial-and-error testing phase, with delivery to be perfected later?”
“There are plenty of nasty bugs that can be weaponized out there,” Flanagan pointed out. “If they’ve got the kind of connections that the Humanity Front’s got, I’m sure they could get their nasty little mitts on some smallpox or something. Why a designer bug?”
“Who knows?” Price replied impatiently. “Like you said, they’re rich and connected. Maybe their egos make them want to put a mark on history in more ways than just wreaking havoc. I don’t know. I’d take the good news for what it is, that they’re split up and doing it the hard way, giving us some time and a potential advantage.”
“That advantage is going to go away quick if we’re not in position before that haboob comes in,” Flanagan retorted. “How far out are the birds?”
Price almost smirked. “Right there,” he said, pointing to the
west. Flanagan followed his finger to see the distant specks of the two 412s inbound over the hills. “They’re going to land at the same LZ where they dropped us.”
“We’d better get moving, then,” Flanagan said, lifting his L1A1. “Are your boys ready?”
“We’re ready,” Vernon said as he walked along the slope toward them. “Whenever you are.”
Flanagan nodded, looking back up the hill. “George! Kevin!” he hissed. “Birds are inbound. Let’s go!”
Jenkins looked down at him, then rolled over and started to scuttle down the slope. Curtis took one more look down at the target, then joined them.
“George, you’ve got point,” Flanagan said, feeling Brannigan’s eyes on him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a leadership role, but it was the first time that the Colonel had given him an element, an independent command. He didn’t let it rattle him. I’m too old to worry about it. Making sure the mission goes off just so that we all get back alive is far more important than John’s good opinion. They go hand in hand, sure, but...priorities.
Putting Jenkins on point was less than ideal; Flanagan would much rather have been out there himself. Jenkins was okay in a fight, but he was one of those SEALs who’d never really gotten out into the weeds; he was a doorkicker first and foremost. He’d picked up some bushcraft during his time with the Blackhearts, but his attitude had largely insinuated that he’d done so in spite of himself.
Though, as they worked their way down the slope, masked from the Humanity Front camp—though not the drones overhead—by the terrain, Flanagan had to admit that Jenkins had lost a little bit of the SEAL chip on his shoulder that he’d first come to the team with. Not enough of it, but some.
It was a short trip down the hill, but the birds were already on the ground by the time they reached the flats, the dust clouds dispersing and rotors still turning.
He was about to tell Jenkins to pick it up; they were on a hell of a short timeline, and there was no way, with their drone coverage, that the Humanity Front hadn’t picked up on the helos coming in to land.
