"We need to split up and run back to the trucks," Garang ordered, keying his radio so Jonjo could hear the order.
The men didn't need prompting. They burst into the bush as the helicopter circled around for another pass.
Garang fled as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard the helicopter's guns firing and rockets slamming into the ground. It was off to one flank, near Jonjo's position. He paused under a thick outcrop of trees as the chopper roared overhead, searching for targets. Less than fifty meters away, one of his men raised an AK and blasted away at the helicopter. It was a pointless gesture, the aircraft banked and unleashed another volley of rockets.
For the next half an hour Garang crept through the thickest bushes he could find. Sharp thorns tore at him, drenching his shirt in blood.
The sound of the helicopter disappeared in the distance and when it failed to return the SFF commander started to run again. He followed foot trails and animal tracks, putting as much distance between him and the refinery as he could. At a track junction he met with two of his men. They joined him as they covered the distance to the vehicles.
Two hours later, exhausted, they reached the trucks, the first to return.
"What happened?" Jess asked as she laid her basic medical kit out on the bonnet of a four-wheel drive. She started checking over the two fighters for wounds. "I heard the explosions."
"Chinese had a helicopter." Garang dropped into the sand breathing heavily.
Jess finished her inspection of the two men and made her way to Garang.
"And the rest of the men?" She made to inspect Garang's wounds.
"I don't know." He waved her away. "They are only scratches."
She ignored him swabbing one of the bleeding slashes with an antiseptic wipe.
Garang pushed her hand away. "Damn it, stop mothering me." He walked stiffly over to where the two-man vehicle security detail was sitting under the camouflage nets. Jess checked over her medical kit in silence.
Over the next few hours a few men trickled in. None of the first team that bore the brunt of the helicopter made it; all ten of them had been slaughtered in the creek line. Of Garang's own group, three had been lost, killed as they fled. There was no sign of Jonjo and his men. Garang could not contact them as he had lost his radio, forgotten during his frantic attempt to escape.
There was little work for Jess, a few scratches and a shrapnel wound. Anyone more badly injured had died under the savage onslaught of the helicopter.
Two hours later Garang had accepted total defeat. From a group of thirty fighters he now only had nine. He had lost all but one of his RPG launchers and all of his PKM machine guns. The mission had gone from total success to complete failure in a matter of seconds.
The disheartened remnants of the unit pulled the camouflage nets down from the trucks and climbed in, ready for the long drive back to their village.
As Garang started the engine of the Hilux he heard a piercing whistle. He killed the engine and leapt out of the cab.
It was Jonjo, leading his men into the RV. Glistening with sweat they dropped onto the sand, exhausted.
Garang counted them. They were all there and they still had all their weapons. His losses, although brutal, were not as bad as he had thought. He squatted in the sand next to the exhausted Jonjo as Jess made her rounds amongst the men.
"How did you escape?"
Jonjo shrugged, matter-of-fact. "We hid in the smoke. The helicopter has only so much fuel. So when it landed, we ran, and when it flew, we hid."
Garang allowed them to rest a moment before ordering them into the trucks. He had a long drive back to their base to dwell on the defeat. Convincing the other Dinka warriors to join the SFF, when he had left thirteen men behind, dead, was going to be next to impossible.
Chapter 14
Juba Arms Bazaar, South Sudan
Garang's men had returned directly to their base, an isolated Dinka village hidden in a valley. He had let them rest, confident the location was well hidden from the Janjaweed.
While the fighters spent time with their wives and children, Garang had returned to Juba with Jonjo and Jess. After a long argument he had persuaded Jess to lend him money from the hospital's meager funds. Garang's supporters in the US had not sent any more cash.
Once Jess had returned to the hospital and handed over the money, Garang, together with Jonjo, headed into town in an attempt to purchase weapons and ammunition.
The phrase 'arms dealer' usually evokes images of warehouses stacked with guns and rocket launchers, dealers of death selling tanks and fighter jets to wealthy dictators. Juba's death merchants conformed with none of these stereotypes.
Garang and Jonjo wandered the narrow alleyway hidden at the back of Juba's traditional markets. They had paid the small fee to gain entry, stepping through the rusty corrugated iron wall as a guard peeled back a loose sheet.
The bazaar was merely a bunch of stalls selling the usual battered hardware. RPGs, PKMs, AKs and other weapons leaned on racks. Stacks of ammunition were piled high on makeshift tables. It was the same all over Africa; wherever there was conflict, opportunists made money hawking the tools of the trade.
Garang stopped at a stall well stocked with RPG rockets. He hefted one from the seller's bench and inspected it.
The owner offered another of the missiles to Jonjo. "Only the best rockets from Nubu's stall, yes?" said the shopkeeper.
Jess had only given him five thousand Sudanese Pounds and Garang wanted to ensure they got the best value for their money. The rocket he inspected looked in good condition: the end cap was in place, the body free of dents and scratches. Even the booster charges looked new.
"How much?" asked Garang.
"Five hundred each."
Garang gave Jonjo a sideways glance. The young man shook his head and placed the rocket back on the table.
The SFF leader handed his own rocket to the seller. "Too expensive." He turned to walk away.
"Four hundred!" The man reached out and grasped his arm.
"Two hundred," responded Garang, peeling the man's grimy hand from his shirt.
"No, no, no. Too cheap! These are quality. Russian made."
Garang looked the man in the eye. "We tend to use a lot of them."
Jonjo had already moved on to the next stall. The young soldier had picked up a Dragunov sniper rifle and was handling it like it was a precious artifact. Even in poor condition it was worth more than the entire SFF budget. Garang made a move to join him.
"OK. OK. 250." The trader was desperate for a sale.
"225 and I will buy ten," said Garang.
The man wavered as Garang walked away. "OK! OK!" he yelled after the SFF leader.
"Jonjo, pay the man. We will load the ammunition once we are done."
The young soldier nodded, laying the sniper rifle back in its rack.
Garang crunched the numbers in his head. The rockets were the most expensive component of the purchase. It had used up half his funds. He still needed to purchase a dozen boxes of AK47 ammunition and at least three boxes of linked ammunition for the PKMs. This would give the remaining SFF warriors enough to defend their camp and conduct some training. If he was going to launch any sort of offensive, he was going to need to find more money and more men—quickly. This was the part that had him worried. Perhaps Jess would be able to get funds from the NGOs. There was no way he was going to dip into his own savings without a guarantee from the oil companies.
Jonjo joined him at the next stall after paying the RPG salesman.
As they were inspecting ammunition, neither of the men noticed the eyes that watched them from across the market. A short, scruffy-looking African dressed in jeans and a t-shirt had been following them since they entered bazaar. He had purchased an AK47 and box of ammunition, then followed the SFF soldiers, appearing to be inspecting ordnance as he trailed them. At one stage he had held up a rocket, taking a picture of it with his mobile phone. Garang and Jonjo thought nothing of it; a
nother purchasing agent buying weapons on behalf of one of many militias, private armies, security details or other armed groups that operated in South Sudan.
The man left the bazaar with his purchases, making his way back to his car. Within the vehicle he scrolled through the photos on his phone, selected one that showed the faces of the two men and sent it to the number he had been given. With any luck the bonus he would receive would be worth close to ten times what the AK and ammunition had cost him.
Chapter 15
PETROCON Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan
Yang's guards had cleared the burnt wreckage of the tanker from the refinery gates by the time the Janjaweed warriors had returned from their pillaging. The shot-up sandbags had been replaced and workers were busy mounting heavy machine guns in the corner guard towers. A pair of bulldozers pushed back the bushes in front of the fence, adding another thirty meters to the clearing around the perimeter. The creek line that Garang's men had used to infiltrate into their firing positions had been leveled.
Sagrib inspected the three bodies that Yang's guards had laid out in the vehicle park. "They are Dinka," he confirmed, inspecting the talismans that hung from a dead man's chest. "How many were there?"
"At least thirty." Yang was standing a few feet away, hands folded across his chest.
"And you killed how many?" Sagrib asked.
"Thirteen, possibly more. A number of bodies are still out there."
Sagrib turned to the Chinese operative with a confused look on his face. "You chased them?"
"We turned the battle with superior firepower. My helicopter arrived the day before the attack."
A sickly grin spread across the Arab murderer's face. "Show me the helicopter."
Yang led Sagrib through the refinery equipment to where the gunship was based. High banks of earth surrounded the aircraft, protecting it from attack. Bunkers dug into the dry sand had been reinforced with sandbags to hold the helicopter's rockets and ammunition.
Sagrib kept grinning like a child as he ran his hands over the rocket pods attached to the sleek machine. The H425 was a Chinese-built helicopter designed for executive transport. This particular model had been heavily modified by PETROCON, a brace of 12.7mm fixed machine guns and four rocket pods were slung beneath the stubby wings that protruded from its sides.
"If I call will you bring this to the fight?" Sagrib asked.
"Yes. When we have found the men responsible for the attack I will help you destroy them."
Yang's pocket buzzed twice as a message reached his phone. He moved away to check the device, leaving Sagrib with the helicopter. The message contained a number of photos. He selected one that showed a man's face and took it to Sagrib.
"Do you know this man?" he asked.
The Janjaweed commander studied the photo. "Yes, his name is Garang. He is an American, born of a bastard Dinka who ran from his duties like a scared dog."
"How do you know him?"
"He came to Khartoum with the Dinka chief. I wanted to kill him as well, but Omar would not allow it. He said he is not the same as the others. He is American so he is greedy."
"Greed can be a powerful motivator. How many men do you think he has?"
"Don't know: twenty, maybe thirty. Not as many thanks to the helicopter." He laughed displaying his toothless gums.
"Was he the one who warned the villagers in Kaljak and killed one of your men?"
"Could be. One of the infidel dogs said an American Dinka did it."
"He is certainly audacious, I will give him that. It takes determination to strike deep into enemy territory."
"I do it every day," spat the Janjaweed commander. "Do you really think he did this?" Sagrib pointed towards the burnt out front gate.
"I think we both know the answer to that."
"From your spies, yes?"
Yang nodded.
Sagrib smashed his fist into his palm. "I should have killed the American when I had a chance. I will find him, his men, their families, and I will kill them all."
"If you get word of his camp pass it to me immediately," said Yang as the pair walked back to the waiting Janjaweed.
"Yes, yes. And I have more men coming. Will you have more vehicles?"
"Five more fast attack vehicles are arriving tomorrow with another shipment of heavy weapons and ammunition. My men will fit the machine guns to your trucks."
Sagrib nodded. "When we find their camp you will bring the helicopter, yes?"
"Of course. You find them and we will destroy them together."
Chapter 16
20km North of Juba, South Sudan
In South Sudan another team was preparing to join the war. Mirza had driven across the border from Ethiopia two days earlier. He had rented a small house in Juba, paying a full month's rent in cash before scoping the situation in town. Mirza was not one for tourism but he visited the bars, restaurants and markets to get a feel for what was happening. In cargo pants, a khaki shirt and combat boots, with his heavy beard he looked like any of the mining, oil, security or NGO contractors floating around Africa. His Asiatic features could have come from a dozen different regions though his passport claimed he was a British national.
Within forty-eight hours of arriving in Juba, Mirza was ready to meet the next member of the PRIMAL team. He had driven his four-wheel drive to the RV location just after sunrise. Ten kilometers out from Juba he had followed an overgrown track off the main road. Parked in a dry riverbed amongst dense vegetation, he waited patiently to make contact with the incoming aircraft.
Mirza grabbed his iPRIMAL from the dashboard and checked the combat interface. Dragonfly's icon showed it was a little over fifty kilometers out: just under ten minutes flying time. He tapped the screen and opened a line of communication.
"Dragonfly, this is Wildcat. LZ is secure. Awaiting delivery of the package."
Mitch, the pilot, responded immediately. "Wildcat, I read you loud and clear. Got you on scope. We're approx seven mikes out."
"Roger."
"You better have a martini ready when I get there," said another voice.
"A bottle of cold H2O if you're lucky, Aden," broadcast Mirza.
"Wow sounds great. Good thing I'm bringing my own. See you on the ground in five," replied Bishop from inside the aircraft.
Mirza got out of his vehicle and used the last few minutes of the aircraft's approach to give the area around the wadi a quick scan. Apart from a family of warthogs hunting for grubs, it was all clear.
He slid the iPRIMAL from the pocket of his cargo pants and held it up in front of his face. On the screen he could see the flat ground to his front digitally overlaid with the landing zone he had marked. The same image would appear in Mitch's heads-up display, showing him the exact location and dimensions.
In the distance he could hear the faint drone of Dragonfly. It grew louder as the speck on the horizon rapidly increased in size. The warthog family bolted into a thicket of swamp grass as the aircraft cycled through its landing process, the two giant blades pitching skyward as it moved into a hover. The aircraft dropped towards the LZ, slowing as the powerful blades bit into the air. A wall of dust slammed into the wadi, stinging Mirza's skin, forcing him to close his eyes.
Mitch brought the craft in with skill and it touched down gently in the middle of the LZ. The side door was already open and a number of bundles dropped to the ground. Finally a figure jumped out and dropped to a knee as the Dragonfly powered away, driving even more sand into the air.
In a pair of faded blue jeans and a lightweight khaki shirt, the PRIMAL operative had an old blue 'New York Yankees' cap on his head, tufts of hair sticking out under it. Instead of boots he wore heavy-duty trail running shoes, something that irked Mirza. Running shoes provided no ankle protection when moving through rough terrain.
Mirza waited for the dust to settle before he walked over to help with the gear.
"Welcome to Africa, Aden."
"Good to be back, mate." Bishop took
a deep breath of the crisp morning air. "It's been far too long," he said as he hugged his long-time friend. Sporting the start of a beard, it gave him a scruffy look that, together with his dark eyes and crooked nose, gave him the appearance of a troublemaker.
He grabbed the bags and followed Mirza into the wadi where the four-wheel drive was parked.
"A Bowler!" Bishop exclaimed. "Where the hell did you get a Bowler Wildcat?"
Mirza grinned, the tan colored four-wheel drive looked like a fairly standard Land Rover soft top but closer observation revealed a few key giveaways to the true nature of the truck. On either side of the bonnet were a pair of air intakes that allowed the supercharged 4.0 liter V8 to suck in all the oxygen it needed. The roll cage had also been modified; hidden by a canvas sun shade was a machine gun ring mount. The Wildcat was basically a rally car with teeth.
Mirza patted the bonnet. "In Ethiopia I asked Mitch for a fast truck and this is what he gave me."
Bishop laughed as he unzipped one of his bags, pulling out his AK104 assault rifle and a chest rig. He dumped the bags in the back of the Bowler, and with his weapon and ammunition climbed into the passenger seat.
"Didn't you see one of these on 'Top Gear'?" asked Bishop. It was well known that Mirza was a fan of the show. "You must have mentioned it to Mitch." PRIMAL's resident technician, top gun pilot and all round Mr Fix-It was renowned for his ability to get the team anything they wanted.
Mirza turned over the engine and the Bowler started with a throaty rumble. "Now that's what I'm talking about," said Bishop. "How far is it back to Juba?"
"About twenty kilometers."
Bishop checked the digital map on his iPRIMAL. "Terrain's pretty tough but I reckon you can get this beast to the safehouse in under fifteen minutes."
He caught a glimpse of a smile through the smaller man's beard as Mirza pushed the accelerator to the floor. Bishop was thrown back in his seat. The Bowler roared like an enraged rhino and accelerated out of the riverbed.
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