PRIMAL Vengeance (3)

by Jack Silkstone

  Jonjo checked his sketch map again and identified a number of suitable locations to stage fighters, marking them on his sketch map with an X. The plan would be to ambush a petrol tanker as it came through the entrance; with any luck it could set fire to the whole base. Garang's instructions were clear; he wanted to attack the refinery, not the pipelines or drilling sites. He wanted a spectacular attack to draw more fighters and support to the newly formed South Freedom Fighters.

  The SFF scout left his hiding spot and worked his way back around the facility to the side overlooking the front gate. The dirt road snaked in between a set of heavy concrete blast walls covered by two guard towers. Heavily armed security personnel were posted to search every vehicle that entered.

  Jonjo slid forward on his stomach into the hide he had constructed the day before. He pushed cut branches forward for concealment as he watched the comings and goings of the refinery. He wanted to wait for an oil tanker in order to observe how the security detail reacted to the vehicle leaving the facility. Then he would head south, back into radio range with Garang and the rest of the SFF.

  The growl of vehicles alerted him to the approach of a convoy, not yet visible from his position. As the sound grew louder Jonjo could see that the guards at the checkpoint had retreated to their firing positions. The convoy drove into sight and he could see why. They were technicals, battered Toyota Hiluxs and Landcruisers with heavy machine guns bolted to their trays. The five trucks were filled with armed men. Even at this distance Jonjo could see the men were Arabs; there was no doubt: the dark skin, the head-scarves. He reached for his AK; they were Janjaweed.

  He watched the standoff at the gate. One of the Chinese mercenaries had come forward to confront the men. Jonjo waited for the shooting to start. The weapons on the technicals were pointed at the towers, the facility security forces ready with their own weapons. What were the Janjaweed thinking, Jonjo wondered. Were they raiding the refinery? Demanding protection money? Surely they weren't working together.

  With a wave the security guard confirmed Jonjo's worst fears. One by one the trucks snaked through the security checkpoint and into the facility. He watched the last of the convoy disappear and crawled back to where he had left his pack. He threw it over his shoulder and trotted off away from the refinery, back towards the border. If the Janjaweed were working with the Chinese, he needed to get into radio range and let Garang know as soon as possible.

  Chapter 6

  PETROCON Oil Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan

  Inside the confines of the refinery, in front of the demountable accommodation buildings, Yang had started his morning fitness regime. Dressed in black combat pants, boots and singlet, he worked through a number of warm-up exercises, testing his injured leg. A Somalian doctor had stitched the wound and he was lucky the blade had missed anything vital. Confident that he could carry the weakness, he started working a standing bag with punch and elbow combinations. His face was still swollen, another painful reminder of his failure on the 'Tian Hai'. As his body warmed he sped up the combinations, unleashing his rage on the spring loaded heavy bag. Unable to bear the weight of a roundhouse kick on his bad leg, he focused on low front kicks.

  "Sir." One of the refinery guards interrupted his routine.

  "What?" Yang snapped back in Mandarin.

  "The Arabs are here."

  Yang paused mid-combo and turned his head. "Really? I do not see them?"

  The guard spoke into his radio. "Let them in."

  Yang returned to his routine as the Janjaweed trucks pulled into the vehicle car park behind the gates. He completed another series of punches as the Arab raiders gathered in front of their trucks. There were more than forty men, all dark skinned and clad in various styles of desert and woodland camouflage.

  Yang finished his punches and stepped away from the bag wiping the sweat from his face and arms with a towel. He threw it onto a chair and walked across to the waiting men.

  "Who is in charge?" he asked in English.

  The Janjaweed stared at him with open animosity. Omar had told them to report to the Chinese operative, a notion that did not sit well with the fiercely independent warriors.

  There was silence as Yang met their gazes with his own. Then one of the men stepped forward.

  "You think you are a fighter, Chinaman?" The Janjaweed commander glanced at the standing bag. "Do you fuck pretend women as well?"

  A number of the men laughed, translating the joke into their dialect. In a few seconds the entire group was cackling.

  Yang did not react. He stood in silence, turned his head from side to side, scanning the rag tag group of fighters. He fixed his stare at the largest of the group. The Arab stood at least six foot nine, a full foot taller than the Chinese operative. Like Yang, he was lean and well muscled.

  The Janjaweed leader smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. "Ah, I think our friend prefers the boys, yes!" Once again his men translated the comment and started laughing.

  Yang raised his arm and pointed at the man. The Janjaweed boss nodded at the hulking Arab. The man grinned, shrugged off his ammunition belts and handed his machine gun to another man. He swaggered across the sand towards Yang.

  With a roar he lept forward, his arms wide to catch Yang in a death grip.

  The Chinese operative sidestepped, ducking under the Arab's arm. There was a loud slap and the bigger man roared like a wounded bull. He turned to face Yang and his comrades. His right cheek was glowing red, his eyes watering from the blow. Yang stood calmly, waiting for the next attack.

  The Janjaweed fighter was cautious now. He approached slowly, his fists in a defensive guard. Yang, hands forward, palms open, let him close. The Arab swung a punch and Yang caught it under his left arm, pivoted with the motion and slammed his boot into the side of the man's knee dislocating it.

  The Arab screamed and dropped his guard. Yang lifted his elbow and drove his body around, connecting with the side of the bigger man's head. The scream stopped as he collapsed in the sand, unconscious.

  Having finished his opponent, Yang dusted his hands and once again adopted a passive stance. He watched the surprised Janjaweed leader who was staring at the inert body of his fighter.

  "I like this man!" the Arab announced to his men as he stepped forward offering a hand to Yang.

  There was an awkward pause as Yang left him hanging. Then he stepped forward to grasp the Arab's hand.

  "My name is Yang and I am here to help you defeat our enemies."

  "I am Sagrib." The Janjaweed's mouth opened into a putrid smile. "And I like you even more." He laughed and slapped the Chinese operative on the shoulder.

  Yang led the men across to where a team of guards were fitting out eight tan four-wheel drives. The team was slotting Chinese built QJZ-89 heavy machine guns into the turret mounts and lighter PKM machine guns to the front pintle mounts. Other men were loading weapons and boxes of ammunition into the back of the trucks.

  "The vehicles are yours. My men will provide ammunition, fuel and repairs as you need them," said Yang.

  Sagrib translated for his men. They looked at each other in disbelief then rushed forward to inspect the modern equipment. Compared to the relics they usually fought with, the Chinese equipment was state-of-the-art.

  "And what do you want from me?" Sagrib asked, eyeing the Chinese agent suspiciously. "I work for Omar, not Chinamen."

  Yang placed a satellite phone in the Janjaweed leader's hand. "I am here to help you destroy Sudan's enemies and reclaim her wealth." He took a map from his thigh pocket and unfolded it. He had circled the villages that he wanted the Janjaweed to raid. "These villages are where we need to attack first. If we push the Dinka off the land, then Sudan can claim it and drill for more oil."

  Sagrib inspected the map. With his new vehicles and heavy weapons he could hit them hard and withdraw before any of the South Sudanese Army units or the UN could respond. He smiled at the thought of how many of the black Christians his men would kil
l.

  "I will give you regular intelligence updates," said Yang.

  "You have people in the South?" asked Sagrib.

  "We have people everywhere."

  Chapter 7

  Kaljak Village, Abyei District

  Technically the village of Kaljak was located in South Sudan. In reality it resided in the contested Abyei District, an area claimed by both Sudan and the newly formed South Sudan. During a UN referendum in 2011 the population had voted overwhelmingly in favor of splitting from Sudan. However democracy meant little to the powerful men in Khartoum. They simply wanted the oil.

  The town, if it could be called that, was a handful of single storey, mud-and-thatch-roofed dwellings constructed around an open marketplace. Normally filled with traders and their goods, it lay almost empty, abandoned in the face of war.

  To one side of the dusty square stood a medical clinic constructed with international aid. It was the only medical post for forty miles. Manned by a team of Western volunteers, it was a basic, single storey building with a large water tank. Its modern-day wood and plastic sheet construction contrasted with the mud-brick huts clustered around it.

  "You don't understand. They will come and they will kill everyone!" Garang was arguing with the missionaries who ran the clinic. The evangelists refused to abandon the village despite the dire warning that Garang and his men had brought.

  The leader of the small group was a stern American woman. She reminded Garang of his junior high librarian. "God did not abandon us in our time of need. We will not abandon these people."

  "God has nothing to do with this and the villagers are already leaving." The SFF leader was getting increasingly agitated by her stubbornness. "The Janjaweed will not care what god you pray to. You will die here."

  The old woman jutted out her chin. "I would not expect you to understand. You are not a believer."

  "For God's sake, woman, die here if you want. But don't force these women to die with you." The other members of the missionary team were a pair of idealistic American college students.

  "God will not forsake us, young man. We will negotiate with these men."

  Garang threw his arms in the air and stormed away. "These people are brainwashed. Jess, you talk to them." The doctor was overseeing Garang's men loading the village's elderly into a battered old pickup.

  "I'll try." She walked over to the missionaries.

  Garang had brought six armed men, a former military UNIMOG truck and a four-wheel drive to the village. It was all he could scrounge up on short notice. Jonjo's radio transmission revealed the Janjaweed at the oil refinery had reached them the day before. By the time they had picked up the teenage soldier the Janjaweed were already on their way to Kaljak.

  The news had been shocking; the nomadic Arab tribes had never worked with the Chinese before. Their raids were usually focused out west around Darfur.

  The SFF had moved fast but still they were running out of time. As they reached Kaljak, Janjaweed warriors had already raided a number of the nearby settlements. The streams of refugees brought stories of horror: entire families massacred, woman raped, markets pillaged, cattle butchered, homes burned. The Arab killers were leaving nothing in their wake. Their masters in Khartoum wanted the villagers forced off the lands so they could claim the territory. The Janjaweed were just happy to be slaughtering infidels.

  Garang watched the villagers fleeing. Women, children and the elderly, hampered by the few things they could carry, walked as fast as they could. A couple of rusted vehicles also departed, crammed full of people and the last of the livestock. Most of the cattle had already been driven south by the able-bodied men. Everyone was heading deep into South Sudan, away from the violence and towards the UN refugee camps.

  Garang slammed his fist down on the bonnet of his old Hilux four-wheel drive. If only he had more men and more weapons. He could make a stand against the Janjaweed, drive them from the oil fields and bring riches to the country. He shook his head in disbelief as a white UN Landcruiser overtook the stragglers, leaving them in its dust. No doubt the observers would report the incident, then in a week or so a patrol of poorly equipped Nigerians would come out to survey what was left of the village. He spat in the dust as he watched the four-wheel drive disappear down the dirt track.

  The radio attached to his belt squelched twice. It would be Jonjo reporting in. The young warrior was watching the approaches to the village.

  "Garang, Garang!"

  "Jonjo, report."

  "The Janjaweed are closing in. We have ten minutes at the most."

  The SFF leader looked back to where he had left Jess negotiating with the missionaries. She had given up and was now photographing with her camera; more evidence of the atrocities, as she called it. His men had finished loading the weak and wounded into the UNIMOG truck and were now focused on stopping desperate refugees from climbing onto the vehicle.

  "OK, pull back, Jonjo.

  "Yes, Garang. I'm coming."

  He dropped the radio back onto his belt, unslung his AK and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mount up. We're leaving!"

  Two of his men climbed into the back of the UNIMOG and lifted the tailgate. The driver turned the truck engine over as Jess climbed up into the cab. The other three men were in the Hilux.

  Garang strode over to the missionaries who were standing out in front of the medical clinic. "Last chance, women. We are leaving."

  The old lady stood firm. "We're staying."

  "May God be with you then." Garang strode back to the truck. The driver was struggling to get it started.

  In the distance a heavy machine gun thudded followed by the crackle of small arms. The gunfire panicked the remaining villagers and they started running into the bush, looking to hide. The elderly missionary bundled the younger women into the clinic and shut the door.

  "Get that damn truck started!" ordered Garang as he jumped into the front seat of the Hilux.

  More gunfire sounded in the distance, coming from local villagers trying to protect their homes. They would die in vain, ruthlessly gunned down by the raiders.

  "The truck is broken," Jess yelled from the front seat. "It won't start."

  Another volley of heavy machine-gun fire echoed through the marketplace.

  Garang leapt from the Hilux, yelling at his driver, "Get in front of the truck and tow start it!"

  The SFF man skidded the Hilux in front of the UNIMOG and jumped out hooking chains to the bull bar of the truck.

  "Hurry the hell up!" screamed the SFF commander.

  "Garang!" Jonjo yelled from the other side of the village. He was running, his AK47 held at the ready. "Why is the truck still here?"

  "Because it's broken," snapped Garang.

  Jonjo grabbed a worn PKM machine gun from the SFF pickup. Looping a belt of ammunition over his shoulder, he ran to the medical clinic. It was the tallest building in the village and a ladder led up the adjacent water tank. He scrambled up to get a better view.

  The gunfire from the edge of the village had stopped but the rumbling of approaching vehicles could be heard. The local villagers had put up a poor showing. Jonjo lay at the roof's edge, adjusting the PKM, sighting the weapon on the Janjaweed convoy he could see in the distance.

  "We've got inbound, four vehicles," Jonjo yelled.

  "Slow them down!" Garang screamed from the Hilux.

  Jonjo opened fire with a short burst from the PKM. The vehicles were still well out of effective range for the weapon and the rounds smacked into the dust, short of his intended target. The young soldier adjusted his point of aim, as Garang had taught him, and pumped out another volley.

  Twelve hundred meters up the track the rounds slammed into the lead vehicle in the Janjaweed convoy. The driver reacted quickly, bouncing the truck off the road and into the bush. The other vehicles followed, bashing through the trees. The gunners in the weapon turrets unleashed their machine guns, blasting away at the village.

  Jonjo ducked instinctively as b
ullets snapped through the air. The rooftop offered good fields of view but no protection. He let off another burst into the trees where the vehicles had driven. Inaccurate return fire peppered the village and the market place.

  "Garang, we need to go now!"

  "God damn it I know, Jonjo!"

  The Hilux struggled to pull the UNIMOG, its worn engine screaming. Slowly the truck inched forward, gaining momentum. As it gathered speed the driver dropped the clutch, there was a lurch and a cough of smoke and the old diesel spluttered to life. Both vehicles halted, their engines running, and a SFF fighter unlatched the Hilux from the truck.

  Back on the building Jonjo watched the location of the Janjaweed vehicles, partially concealed amongst the trees. His sharp eyes registered a flash and he caught a glimpse of a small black dot heading skyward.

  "MORTARS!" the young soldier screamed as he leapt from the rooftop.

  The bombs slammed into the marketplace, screams filling the air as flying shrapnel inflicted horrendous wounds on a family of refugees. A woman thrashed in the dirt, both of her legs blown off. Another round detonated on top of her finishing her misery, spraying her body across the dirt.

  The UNIMOG truck roared as it leapt forward, black smoke pouring from its exhaust. The driver didn't need prompting. He swerved around the Hilux and took off down the track that ran south.

  "GO, GO, GO!" screamed Garang as more rounds slammed into the village. The roof of the medical clinic exploded in a cloud of splinters and dust, the water tank collapsing, sending a wave out over the packed earth of the marketplace.

  The SFF driver waited a second, watching his side mirror. Jonjo burst through the dust and smoke. Waiting hands hauled him over the tailgate and the driver gunned the engine. The four-wheel drive's tires spun in the dirt as they lurched forward escaping the maelstrom of violence.