by Dave Edlund
“You’ve been ordered to continue the mission even though you lost almost half your team,” Peter said. He could see Jim didn’t like the message he’d received over the radio.
“That’s my concern. My men will adapt. You and Ethan and your friends need to get on that truck. The bus is leaving.”
“Wait a minute Jim. I owe you. Let me help.”
Jim closed the gap to Peter until he was less than an arm’s length away. He clenched his jaw and focused on his friends face, trying to read his mind, weigh his commitment, measure his skills. The silence served to amplify the tension, and then he made his decision. “T-Bone and Sulu were my science specialists. I could use your help.”
“If Peter is stayin’, so am I,” Todd announced.
“Me too,” added Gary, his strength slowly returning with hydration and pain medication circulating through his body.
Jim wondered what Colonel Pierson would say, but then quickly dismissed the thought. He ordered me to improvise. “Under the circumstances, I’m not going to argue. Ethan can load up and head out with the wounded.”
“No way. I’m not leaving without my Dad.”
“Son, please listen to Commander Nicolaou. You should go home.”
“No way, Dad. I told you before; I’m not leaving unless we leave together.”
Peter looked at Jim, his eyes pleading for an answer that Jim would not give.
“Look,” Jim said. “I don’t like this, and Colonel Pierson will probably relieve me of my command and bust me two grades for doing it. But I’m down five men, including my two geeks. I won’t order any of you to stay, and if you choose to leave you need to get on that truck now.” Jim paused looking for a reaction from the civilians—no one spoke or moved for the truck.
“Okay. As of this moment you are all volunteers and under my command. This is a military mission of highest priority.”
“What, exactly, is this mission?” Peter asked
Jim took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing.
“It’s about Colonel Ming. NSA has a hunch that he’s here, but there’s no actionable intel. We weren’t even certain he was alive… until Ethan mentioned his name.”
“So who is Colonel Ming, and what does he have to do with this?” Peter asked.
Jim took a second to organize his thoughts before answering. “Colonel Ming is a very elusive character. He is reported to be a brilliant scientist. Trained in medicine and genetic engineering, specializing in viral diseases. He completed two post docs in the U.S.—Harvard and UC San Francisco Medical Center—by age 30. Then he left the U.S. and reappeared a few years later in Beijing. Over the last two decades he worked mostly for the North Koreans and the PLA—People’s Liberation Army—researching and developing bioweapons.
“About eighteen months ago the CIA started to receive unconfirmed reports that Ming was in Sudan, but without agents on the ground we were never able to develop actionable intel. A lot of the information we have on Ming was obtained through the Mossad. They refer to him as a modern-day Dr. Mengele, Angel of Death—but the locals here have another name for him.”
“And what would that be?” Peter asked.
“They call him the Devil of Darfur.”
Peter was repulsed by these references to Colonel Ming. He knew a little about the atrocities committed by Nazi doctors in the 1940s, and his imagination conjured up horrific images of sadistic human experiments. In a brief moment, his face revealed the horror he was feeling. Jim saw it, too.
“You have good reason to fear Ming. Based on our intel, he is pure evil.”
“What do you mean?”
He is rumored to have proposed a radical project, years ago, related to inserting foreign DNA into humans. Supposedly, even the Chinese government was too disgusted and frightened to support it… we’re not sure about the North Koreans. But nothing was ever proven, and his location remains a mystery.”
“If nothing was proven, why so much interest in him?”
“Because we’ve heard other rumors as well. According to some sources, Ming actually conducted experiments on human subjects—mostly violent criminals and homeless men—learning how to successfully insert abnormal DNA into the DNA of living people.”
A chill ran down Peter’s back.
“My team was sent here to accomplish two objectives. The first priority was to rescue Wendy Bennett and any other American hostages. I hoped that would include your son. You and your friends helped us to achieve that goal.”
“What is the second objective?” prompted Peter.
Jim took in a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. He looked squarely at Peter before continuing.
“We have some intelligence from reliable sources—don’t even ask where it came from—that suggests a large number of the tribal people in western Darfur have been disappearing. Eyewitnesses report convoys of trucks carrying men only—never women, children, or the elderly—into the desert, to a remote complex of buildings. The sources say that no one ever leaves.”
“What?” Peter couldn’t believe he had heard correctly, or understood the true implication of what he was being told.
“Satellite photos picked up a newly constructed compound about 20 clicks from here. The analysts think it may be a death camp.”
Peter’s mouth hung agape, his head moving subtly side to side.
“Once we have secured the hostages, my orders are to investigate the compound, discretely of course, and report what we find. If Ming has been directing research there, the analysts will find evidence of that. Any recourse will come through other channels.”
“That’s it?” asked Peter.
Nodding, Jim replied simply, “That’s it.”
“You think Ming is here, don’t you?”
Jim nodded. “And if he is, I think he’s experimenting again with human subjects.”
Chapter 22
Darfur
June 12
With dusk rapidly approaching, the promise of cooling temperatures seemed to improve the mood of almost everyone, except Peter. Despite his exhaustion, or maybe because of it, his mind seemed to be caught in an endless loop as he kept trying to process what Jim had told him about the mysterious Colonel Ming. A thousand questions raced through his mind. Some instinctive warning kept crawling to the front of his thoughts; Ming was near, and he was definitely evil.
In sharp contrast, Todd was sitting with his back against a tree trunk, sipping water from his canteen. His eyes were closed as he spoke. “I can almost imagine that I’m on the beach in Cabo, enjoying an ice-cold Corona with lime.”
“Hey, man. I’m with ya,” replied Gary. “You know, I think I can taste it… oh yeah.”
Gary’s vitality and spirits had definitely improved since receiving Bull’s treatment. He was hydrated and the color had returned to his complexion; the pain medication contributed enormously to regenerating his usual optimistic and witty character.
Ethan just shook his head and laughed. His Dad definitely had some odd friends.
“You guys can’t be serious! This is warm, stale water.”
Todd opened his eyes and looked incredulously at Ethan. “Of course! It’s the illusion… you don’t get it, do you?”
“No, Mr. Steed. I suppose I don’t,” he laughed.
Commander Nicolaou walked over and joined the group. Peter remained quiet, almost brooding.
“I gather you men fancy yourselves as riflemen?” Jim asked. It came across as a genuine question, not a challenge to their egos.
“Yep,” answered Todd, not one to waste words.
Gary added, “My philosophy is, why get close enough that the bad guys can shoot back?”
“Doesn’t appear that your strategy worked so well,” Jim chuckled as he eyed Gary’s bandaged shoulder.
Gary shrugged, and then immediately winced from the brief stab of pain. “Reality and theory don’t always follow one another.”
“We packed along a lot of supplies including sp
are ammo, but I’m afraid I don’t have ammunition for your rifles. The venerable .30-06 cartridge hasn’t been standard government-issue for a long time. As for Peter’s preferred long arm…” Jim glanced over to Peter who had been watching the banter and was grinning ever so slightly. “…Uncle Sam has never knowingly issued any weapon chambering the .340 Weatherby cartridge.”
“A simple oversight, I’m sure. In fact, I have an appointment with the Secretary of Defense next week to review the superb ballistics and advantages of the Weatherby Mark V rifle and .340 cartridge for long-range precision shooting.” Peter commented, and then flashed a grin.
“Be that as it may, what I can offer you is the M107 Barrett .50 caliber rifle.”
“You brought extra rifles?” asked Ethan.
“Sort of, I guess. All my men are trained to be experts with a very broad range of weapons, including the M107. It’s standard practice for my team to deploy with a primary and a secondary weapon assignment.
“The team I detached to escort the Peace Corps hostages back to the Chad border is traveling light, they were ordered to take only their primary weapons and sidearms. That leaves me with four extra 107s.”
“So you’re saying that you have four Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifles… is that right?” asked Todd, just to be sure he heard correctly.
Jim nodded. “I want you all armed and proficient with your weapon, although I’ll do my best to keep you shielded from immediate danger. Magnum!”
A camouflage-clad soldier quickly reported to his commanding officer. Magnum—his call sign, although he liked to use it on informal occasions as well—stood a hand taller than Boss Man at six feet one inch. Like all of the team members, he was fit and muscular, with short cropped hair and looked maybe three to four years younger than his true age of 30.
Magnum—whose given name was Percival Dexter—had been a professional soldier all of his adult life. At the age of eighteen he joined the navy to see the world, which he believed would be far more attractive and interesting than his neighborhood in South Central LA. He loved the challenge and reward, and the seemingly endless opportunity to advance. It was not long before Percival, Percy as his friends called him, won a position with the elite navy commando SEALs.
With a distinguished combat record in both Iraq and Afghanistan, it wasn’t long before he was recruited by Commander Nicolaou to join SGIT. Percy never hesitated to accept any challenge, and he viewed this offer no differently.
“Sir.” Magnum reported his presence.
“Magnum, I think we have just recruited four new snipers to the team. Please issue each man the M107 and see that they receive proper instruction as to its operation and maintenance.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, and let’s see if we have enough daylight left this evening to give these men a few minutes of trigger time—best way to get familiar with the sighting system. They seem to know their way around a rifle. Now I want you to make certain they can handle the Barrett in the excitement of a firefight.”
“Yes, sir.” Magnum motioned to the new recruits.
“Please come with me, gentlemen. There’s not much daylight left but if we stay on task I can get you outfitted and you will still have enough time to squeeze off a few rounds.”
Magnum led the group a short distance to the mule; a remotely piloted hybrid vehicle that essentially was a cargo carrier. It had a large, flat bed the width of a small truck and was just over eight feet long. With a small diesel genset that charged on-board lithium-polymer batteries, combined with an electric motor, the mule could be stealthy when needed and still traverse long distances.
“Gentlemen, this is the mule. We call her Bessy. Since Bessy carries most of the load, we can cover large distances and still be fit and ready to fight.”
“I see that Bessy also packs a punch,” Peter said, noting the electric Gatling gun mounted onto the mule’s deck.
“The platform is flexible. For this mission Boss Man opted to have the Dillon Aero M134DT mounted on Bessy’s deck. This is the light-weight titanium version. It came in real handy in taking out that mass of Janjaweed terrorists charging your position earlier.
“The Dillon fires the standard NATO 7.62mm cartridge at 3,000 rounds per minute. It is devastating against an infantry charge or other soft targets. There’s nothing equal to it on the battlefield.”
“Since we were down to pistols by that point in the battle, I’m truly grateful that you showed up with Bessy and her minigun,” Peter commented.
Magnum reached onto the deck and pulled over a large black water-proof gun case. There were five more like it. He opened the case to reveal the M107 snuggled deep within egg-crate foam.
“Gentlemen. The model 107, Barrett, caliber .50.” Magnum picked up the rifle with one hand, not even registering the 30-pound weight of the weapon. He held it at port arms as he lectured.
“Ten round box magazine…” he pointed to the magazine extending below the rifle’s receiver, never breaking eye contact with his students.
“Twenty-nine inch barrel. Chrome chamber. Folding bipod…” and he extended down two metal legs near the front of the rifle.
“But the most deadly feature of this rifle is here… the optical sighting system.”
Peter was staring intently at the scope as it had already caught his attention. Rather than a traditional riflescope—essentially a tube that is flared or belled at each end to contain ground-glass optics—what he saw on the rifle before him was a conventional scope with a small box attached to the top of the tube on the end closest to the shooter.
“Working with Mr. Ronnie Barrett and his team of engineers, we have enhanced their BORS integrated electronic ballistic computer to include range measurement via an internal laser range finder, and automatic windage adjustment. These rifles are equipped with the Leupold 8.5-25x50mm scope.”
“I’m rather fond of Leupold scopes myself,” Todd commented.
“Glad to hear that, sir.”
“Magnum, what exactly does this modified BORS do for us?” Peter asked.
“Quite simply, it takes the guesswork out of long range shooting. The built-in laser range detection system accurately measures distance-to-target out to 2,000 yards. The internal meteorology suite continually measures ambient temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, angle of inclination, wind speed, and wind direction. A GPS receiver nails the elevation. There’s even a sensor that detects and compensates for rifle tilt… left or right. Basically everything you would input to calculate a ballistic solution is measured. The microchip then computes the ballistic arc and translates that to the small LED display overlaid on the image in the scope. You’ll see key data, like distance to target, wind direction, and speed.
“But the most important feature is the red dot. That is the calculated point of impact—where the BORS computer says the bullet will strike home. All you have to do is adjust the elevation and windage knobs until the red dot merges with the cross hairs.”
Ethan was completely absorbed with Magnum’s instruction while Todd had a blank stare on his face, not quite taking everything in at the speed Magnum was dishing it out. Like Ethan, Gary seemed to be processing the information just fine. “So let me see if I follow. The cross hairs in the scope shows the apparent point of impact and the red dot shows the true ballistic point of impact based on measured environmental data. So, adjusting the elevation and windage knobs alters the sighting point to match the true point of impact. Do I have that right?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Porter. That is correct. I see you have a knack for technology.”
Gary grinned at both Todd and Peter.
“Oh, give me a break,” grumbled Todd.
“Hey, this is my thing. I do computer security and stuff, I dig this, man, okay?”
Even Peter rolled his eyes now.
Magnum continued. “It takes about two seconds for the data to be measured and fed to the BORS microprocessor, so it’s not always practical to calculate prior to each
shot. That’s why Mr. Barrett didn’t completely eliminate the traditional cross hairs in the scope. Pressing this button here at the front of the trigger guard engages the BORS computer. The red dot will be positioned based on the ballistic calculations and it will remain there until the BORS completes the next calculation.”
Pointing toward the muzzle, Magnum said, “The rifle has a muzzle break to compensate for recoil generated by the exhaust gases. But she still kicks! You’ll need to practice good shooting form and hold the stock tight into your shoulder.”
Magnum pulled forward three more cases and distributed the rifles plus ten rounds of ammunition. “This is our special load, manufactured by Nosler. With a 750 grain bullet and muzzle velocity of 2,900 feet-per-second, these are hot loads. We also have a few mags loaded with the Raufoss Mk211 armor piercing rounds for vehicles and hardened targets. Any questions?”
No one spoke up.
“All right. Let’s see what you can do.”
The mule was parked at the edge of the grove of acacia trees, and Magnum led them about 30 yards away. Removing a small range finder from a pocket in his trousers, he sighted a boulder about the size of a man and 678 yards distant. The boulder happened to lie between two small bushes, so it was easy to identify.
“Gentlemen. I want each of you to take a prone position here, give yourselves some space as the muzzle blast is fearsome. Then, I want you each to sight on that boulder between the two small bushes. It is about 680 yards from here. Let me know when you are ready. And mind you, we are going to lose daylight soon.”
Ethan, Todd, Gary, and Peter all took up firing positions as instructed, allowing eight to ten feet between them. Gary gently eased into a prone position, favoring his wounded shoulder but still showing adequate dexterity.
“Ready, Gentlemen?” Magnum asked. He received a unanimous yes.
“Fire at will.”
Slowly, and one by one, the rifles belched their deadly loads. The report with each shot was truly deafening, but at Magnum’s suggestion everyone had stuffed a small wad of tissue in their ears.
Amazingly, each shot was a hit; not just close hits, but right-on hits.
