On Target

by Mark Greaney

  Court rolled his eyes. “I might have come up with something.”

  “We don’t need guns in our convoy. We aren’t looking for trouble.”

  Court eyed the older Italian for a long time. Finally he said, “That’s the funny thing about trouble. Sometimes it comes looking for you.”

  Bianchi’s stare was every bit as intense as Gentry’s; it conveyed the same measure of loathing for the man in front of him. “You do not get in one of my trucks with that gun.”

  This was a dangerous waste of time, and Court knew it. No other car had passed in the ten minutes they had been in the road with the Speranza Internazionale convoy. If he wanted to get out of here before either brigands, the GOS Army, or the secret police happened by, he was going to have to play along. With an exasperated sigh he drew his weapon. Bianchi reached out for it, but Gentry turned away from him, back towards a shallow dry streambed on the south side of the road. He dropped the magazine from the pistol and thumbed the bullets out onto the ground, kicked them down the indentation. Some fell into the cracks of the dry earth, some remained visible. Then he ejected the round from the chamber and disassembled the weapon, pulling off the slide, popping out the slide spring, the barrel. He threw these items as far as he could in the distance.

  Ellen stepped up to him. Her voice was softer; she wanted to put the matter behind them. “Now then. Was that so hard?”

  Court looked out at the vast landscape and scratched a fresh sand flea bite on his left wrist.

  “I’ll let you know in a couple of hours.”

  Ten minutes later Court was in the center seat of the third truck of four in the convoy. He could see little out the windshield ahead save for the dust of the two vehicles in front of them. Ellen was with Mario in the lead vehicle. The Italian had segregated the two, probably, thought Court, so that the geezer could hit on the dust-covered but still attractive Canadian. In the cab with Gentry was Rasid, the white-haired driver, and Bishara, a young loader for SI. Bishara spoke surprisingly good English, even if his geography wasn’t quite as practiced. He asked Court if he was from the same town as David Beckham. Court said no, ignored him mostly, and kept his eyes peeled out the windows. He knew they weren’t free of the NSS just yet. It would be another couple of hours to Dirra, Mario had told them. They should arrive just about midday. Once there, he would get Ellen to safety in the Speranza Internazionale camp for internally displaced people. She would have access to communications there and could arrange some way out of here either via air with a helicopter or overland with an escort of UNAMID troops. Court, on the other hand, planned to hire a car and driver to take him right back to Al Fashir. In the city he would find someone who could sell him a black market mobile phone, and he would call Sid, put as much blame for his missing the Ilyushin flight on the Russian flight crew, the pilot’s canoodling with the girl from the ICC, and he would get Sid to find him some other way out of Al Fashir. If he could do all this in a day and a half, he would still just be able to make it to Suakin in time for the operation there.

  He’d be cutting it close as it was, and he just hoped there were no more snags along the way.

  Court sipped a bottle of tepid water that Bishara had passed him. He’d checked it carefully before opening it to make sure it was not a refilled container. The two SI Darfuris were listening to awful music on a poorly tuned transistor radio that hung right behind Gentry’s head on the latch to the sliding access port to the cargo hold of the truck. The radio coms between the trucks were all but drowned out by the wailing away of some woman. Bishara sang alone for a moment until the older Rasid laughed and joined in.

  The men continued singing into the next song, then the next. Court wished, momentarily, that he still had his gun on his hip and was still waiting in the heat by the side of the road for a ride.

  Bishara only stopped his singing to question Court about various American hip-hop artists, a subject on which the Gray Man was not terribly well versed. He continued ignoring the kid, who finally went back to his music.

  From time to time the convoy radio would crackle to life with the Italian-accented English of Signor Mario Bianchi up in the lead vehicle, usually reporting one thing or another to those in the convoy behind him. A large outcropping of bundled roots from the remains of a dead baobab had broken free from the hard pack alongside the road and needed to be negotiated, a dry wadi that crossed the highway required downshifting to safely cross, a hobbled camel had decided to stop in front of them, so there would be a short delay.

  Court would have felt a lot better if this convoy had an armed escort. “Why don’t you have UNAMID soldiers with you out here?” he asked Bishara.

  The young man just shrugged while he moved to the lousy music. Then he said, “Darfur is as big as Texas in your America, and there are only ten thousand UNAMID soldiers. Most of them are at the camps. Not enough left for every little convoy.” He smiled again. “It’s no problem. The Janjas don’t attack SI. Everybody knows that.”

  Court looked down at the young man, surprised. “And why is that?”

  “Mr. Mario is a friend to the Janjas.”

  Court just looked out the window at the dust. “Perfect.”

  Court had not noticed that Bianchi had not transmitted in some time. He could barely hear anyway with the music and the sing-along in the stuffy cab. But when the Italian’s singsong voice finally did come back on the radio, Court immediately sat up straight. Something in the man’s tone was different. His cadence and sudden protocol caught the American’s attention, and he reached out and turned the dial up quickly.

  “SI IDP camp Dirra, this is SI Convoy, Truck One, over.”

  Court hushed the singing in the cab with him, reached back, and fumbled with the transistor radio to turn it down.

  “Go ahead Truck One, over.” A female voice. Australian.

  “Margie,” Bianchi’s disembodied voice sounded official and serious. Court had studied voice stress patterns for over a decade. He knew this radio transmission meant trouble even before the Italian spoke. “Our convoy has picked up a woman who claims to be an investigator for the International Criminal Court. She is with a colleague. Can you contact their office and Khartoum and confirm her credentials? If she is who she says she is, we need to have them send a helicopter—”

  “Dammit!” Court shouted. The two local tribesmen in the cab with him just stared.

  Court realized these transmissions would surely be picked up by the NSS, who, though certainly no tier-one intelligence organization, could sure as shit figure out that the people the SI convoy had just picked up were the same two killing government agents and blowing up shit in front of the Ghost House the night before.

  Fucking lawyer bitch, thought Gentry, but he caught himself. She had no reason to trust him over Signor Bianchi. She must have felt safe up there with the head of this aid organization and just confided in him about the danger. It was understandable, even if it did just create a potential disaster.

  Gentry’s mind began working full throttle. What were the chances the NSS had picked up that transmission? What were the chances that they would put two and two together? What were the chances they could mobilize assets in the area and either intercept the convoy or be waiting for it outside the IDP camp at Dirra? What were the chances, failing that, that they would be allowed to march right past the UNAMID guards at the camp and grab the girl?

  Court looked out into the haze and dust. He thought to himself in a near frantic mental scream, Think! Think, Gentry! What are they going to do? He struggled to channel the thought process of the leadership in Sudanese intelligence. They could not just let Ellen waltz into the camp at Dirra. She would reveal all about their sanctions violation. They would not wait for UNAMID peacekeepers to link up with the aid convoy. Then they would be outgunned, even if the gunners themselves were not particularly energetic about using their weapons.

  No, Court thought, if he were running the NSS, he would hit them as soon as possible, out here in
the open. Kill everyone in the little convoy so as not to put the focus on the ICC woman as the target of the attack.

  He thought about all these possibilities for less than a minute. Processing them in his fertile brain, a brain conditioned to danger, to battle, to intrigue, to deceit, and to threat.

  The NSS might be able to get a platoon of GOS soldiers in the area mustered in time to cut off the convoy. But that did not seem likely. They were only a few hours from their destination.

  No, the NSS had communications with and control of another fighting force who would be right in the area and ready to do their bidding.

  Oh God, he thought. Not those assholes.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Gentry could only see one likely conclusion. He nodded to himself. The muscles in his jaw flexed with resolve. He looked to Bishara.

  “Give me a map.”

  Bishara fumbled through some papers on the floorboard. While he did so, he laughed. “Why you need a map? There’s only one road. You can’t get lost out here, man.” Still, he pulled out the folded map, and Gentry took it from him quickly and began studying it.

  It was nearly featureless, but there were some fatal funnels in the landscape, shallow crevices and narrow valleys that they would have to negotiate on the way to Dirra. Any one of these places would be a good place to be hit.

  “Listen to me, kid. We’re going to be attacked. Out here, on the road.”

  Bishara’s bright brown eyes widened. “Attacked? Who gonna attack us?”

  Court looked past the young Darfuri, out the passenger window, and into the near infinite landscape. The terrain rose to the south, fat acacia as big as boxcars amid dry hillocks protruding in the distance.

  Court’s voice was strong, but the nerves showed in its tone. “The Janjaweed.”

  The young black man cocked his head. Waved a hand in the cabin as if swatting a fly. “Nah, man.”

  Gentry turned to the driver. “Your gun. I need your gun.”

  Bishara answered for the older man, who spoke no English. “We don’t have no gun, man.”

  “C’mon! I know you guys must keep something stashed in case the Janjas come. I’m not with the UN, I won’t tell. We’re going to get hit, and I need your AK, to watch for them.”

  “No gun, man. And no Janjas gonna come. We are SI.”

  “Doesn’t matter today,” said Court. He thought about his options. He could get on the radio, call up front to Bianchi and have the convoy stop. Then he could tell him of the danger he just caused, have him stay off the radio, and return to Al Fashir.

  No, too many variables. What if Bianchi didn’t comply? What if the NSS or the GOS army was racing from Al Fashir along this very road to catch up with them, in which case slowing to chat or turning back would only put the convoy in more danger.

  No, the best thing they could do was to press on, try to get to the relative safety of the IDP camp near Dirra before the raiders appeared on a hilltop.

  It was something to hope for, but it certainly didn’t mean the Gray Man was going to just sit there with his fingers crossed.

  He now tried to channel the mind of the commander of a gang of armed horsemen out here in the desert. What would his plan be?

  Shit. He had no idea. Gentry possessed some training in small unit tactics. But not on fucking horseback. This was new territory for him. He tried to think back to the John Wayne movies he and his brother and his father enjoyed when he was younger, just to see if any tactics came to mind.

  Nope, not really. The Duke wouldn’t have been caught dead out here in Indian country without a lever-action Winchester, so those old westerns had no relevance to his current predicament.

  Court stopped trying to figure out the best tactics that an attacking force would use. This was not Indians versus the cavalry. This was the Janjaweed versus an NGO. The horsemen wouldn’t be looking for high ground, for sound military terrain. Shit, they would be attacking a defenseless convoy. They could swoop down any place and any time.

  From what he knew of the Janjaweed, they usually did not attack UN convoys, or any convoys, for that matter. No, the Janjaweed militia raided villages, burned huts, raped and slaughtered. Then they looted.

  Looted! Yes. They would want to keep the trucks intact so that they could steal whatever was inside.

  Court could picture the impending action now. They would likely just stop the trucks, get everyone out, and begin the butchery.

  Back at Harvey Point, the CIA instructors tried to teach Court everything, but nobody ever taught him how to prevent a mass execution while unarmed.

  His head spun back to the cargo hatch behind him. “What’s in the back?” Court asked Bishara, who was clearly alarmed by the American’s insistence that they were heading into some sort of an ambush.

  “Nothing, man. No guns. Why you say the Janjas—”

  “What are we hauling?” Court asked again, more insistent this time.

  “Just stuff for the camp. Beds, radios, lamps, desks, shit like that for staff office and living quarters. And tools to build a new water tower. Why you say the Janjas—”

  “Let’s take a look.” Court spun around in the seat and slid the small access hatch from the cab to the massive cargo compartment. There was just enough room to squeeze through, climb over luggage and bags of millet and some sort of a metal rack to make it to the top of the pile of stowed cargo. “Pass me a flashlight,” Court shouted at the young man poking his head through from the cab.

  “Pass you what?” asked Bishara.

  “A torch. Pass me a torch. Fucking British English,” he said under his breath.

  A minute later Bishara and Court were on their hands and knees on top of the gear. It was like a tight crawl space above a ceiling. Easily one hundred fifteen degrees and pitch-black without the light. They bounced around wildly with every bump in the road. The driver must have wondered what the hell was going on, but he continued driving along in the convoy like nothing was amiss.

  “Why you think Janjas are coming?” The young Darfuri finally managed to pose his question.

  Court dug through boxes and bags while he spoke, throwing items over his shoulders left and right while Bishara held the light for him. Gentry explained, “The NSS is looking for the white woman. They want to kill her. Bianchi’s radio broadcast told them where we were. I figure the NSS doesn’t have a strike force out here on the road, so they’ll probably radio the Janjaweed to come get us. If they do, maybe they will just kill me and the Canadian woman, but I wouldn’t bet against them killing everybody, just to cover up the fact they are working with the NSS.”

  Bishara nodded, understanding the ramifications of the words of this high-strung American. “What can I do?”

  “You and I are going to have to work as a team here. We work together, and we can get ourselves and some of these others out of this. You understand?”

  The kid nodded.

  “The driver, Rasid. Do you trust him?”

  Bishara shrugged. “I am from Zaghawa tribe, he is a Masalit. But he is a good man. I will tell him to do what you say.” Then Bishara asked, “What we gonna do?”

  “First, we’re gonna pray I’m wrong.”

  Young Bishara shook his head. “The Darfuri pray all the time. But the Janjas still come and kill us.”

  Court continued digging furiously through the cargo below him. Already he had pulled a cigarette lighter and a mechanical alarm clock from the scrum of cardboard boxes. He clutched a roll of heavy plastic trash bags in his hand and held it up in Bishara’s flashlight’s beam. Then he dug down deeper, past stacks of sacks of flour and small drums of cooking oil. He heaved a woven basket of clothes out of his way and reached up to the SI loader, took the light himself, shined it down on a heavy wooden crate on the floor of the cargo compartment. He pried the lid off to find an array of welding equipment, an acetylene and oxygen rig, a welder’s helmet, iron joints, a torch.

  Court looked up at Bishara at the top of the cargo. He said, �
�If they come, then we fight.”

  “American, I know the Janjaweed; they destroyed my village, they raped my two sisters, killed one, let the other live, but she crazy now after what they did. They killed my father, too. Only my mother and I left, and she at the camp at Dirra. If the Janjaweed come, nothing we can do. They have guns, camels, horses. If they come, we are all gonna die.”

  Court shook his head. “We can do this. These Janjaweed are killers, but they are cowards. They don’t come to fight; they come to slaughter. We make it tough for them, bloody some noses, kill a couple of them even, and they will break and run. They aren’t looking for a battle, believe me. These guys kill women and children for fun. We can do this.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they’re not real soldiers, they have guns! We don’t have anything to stop them with.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “What do we have?”

  “We have me.”

  The kid’s eyes grew wide. “You crazy, man,” he said, a little smile growing on his face.

  Smiling at a time like this meant Bishara was a bit crazy himself. Court could tell immediately that he’d be able to work with this kid.

  “What’s in the other trucks?”

  “Uhhhh, the first truck has food, mostly. Stuff for the workers, not flour for the IDP. Also parts to repair the well—”

  “Forget it. What’s in the truck in front of us?”

  “That’s got the canvas rolls in it, plus water, the generators, six small generators for the camp. Also there is like a pump thing for the well.”

  The oversized tactical portion of Gentry’s brain spun almost too quickly for the rest of his mind to keep up. “No good. Okay, the truck in the back?”

  “Uhhh,” Bishara thought for a minute. “Tools, hand tools, wood and nails and lumber to build a new latrine. Oh, and gas for the generators.”

  Court shined the light up on the young Fur tribesman. “Gas?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Gray Man’s head cocked. “How much gas we talking about?”