by Vince Milam
As the Libyan transport shut down, our decrepit cargo plane fired one engine, then the other. The Ukrainians had heeded my hand signal.
“Our mighty steed roars,” Bo said. He wore his trademark excited grin and crazed eyes always evident in tight spots.
“Maziq will talk with their commander,” I said. “He claims the guy is an old friend.”
The military plane opened the front and back hatches and lowered steel ladders. Libyan soldiers—dressed in combat gear and armed with assault rifles—poured out. Three dozen soldiers. They assembled along the aircraft’s side facing us. Maziq, white robe flowing, greeted a man with epaulets and a black beret. We remained frozen and watched from the shade of the warehouse, fingers on assault-rifle triggers. Unspoken but acknowledged, a rock-solid commitment we would soon depart. If it took a hot firefight to get it done, so be it.
The Libyan soldiers whispered among themselves and stared into the relative darkness of the oversized tin shed. We made no effort to hide and stared back. Maziq and the commander continued a muted back-and-forth until an agreement was struck. Turning, Maziq signaled for our appearance and, with an arm flourish, pointed toward our aircraft.
“Case, you drive. The rest walk alongside,” Marcus said. “Keep the vehicle between us and them.”
I fired the jeep and with tight nods all around, began rolling. A final hurdle, one last bizarre step, and get the hell out of Dodge.
“Follow the yellow brick road,” Bo said as we emerged from the warehouse. I kept the jeep at a fast walk pace.
“In case you just dropped acid, hippie-boy,” Catch said, “those ain’t smiling munchkins.”
We eased past the array of armed soldiers at a twenty-yard distance. Close enough to hear them continue their whispering. Marcus at the front bumper, Bo in the middle, Catch at the rear bumper. Their commander glared at us, his eyes hidden behind knock-off Ray-Bans. A spaghetti western moment—tension high, fingers resting against triggers. Dramatic background music was all that was missing. One bizarre and intense moment.
With a low, calm voice, Marcus said, “Bo, behave. For once in your life, behave.”
Maziq joined us for a few paces and spoke English.
“Very good! A wonderful trip for you. Very good!”
He dropped behind, I sped up, and we jogged the final hundred yards for our plane. Drove up the ramp and into the aircraft. So far, so good. No shooting, no firefight. Just a weird vignette for the ages.
Rugged wouldn’t do justice to the interior decorating. Two dozen large drums, filled with aviation gas, were chained near the forward bulkhead separating the cargo area from the cockpit. A hand-pump protruded from one of them. A black hose ran from the pump and disappeared into the fuselage. It was no doubt hose-clamped into the fuel system.
A Ukrainian pointed toward the appropriate spot for our jeep, ensuring proper weight distribution. As he walked past toward the rear, he indicated a pile of rusty chains. Draped across the pile’s top, several come-alongs. The jeep’s tie-down system.
We chained the vehicle while Catch stood watch at the back opening. The Ukrainian hand-cranked a large handle at the rear. What was once a hydraulic ramp, now hand-operated. The ramp squealed and squeaked as it inched shut. Halfway there, the Ukrainian stopped for a smoke break. Catch wouldn’t have any of it, and took over the cranking. The rear hatch raised within a foot of full closure and, try as Catch might, wouldn’t shut more. The Ukrainian, with hand signals, indicated this was the norm. No problem. Still smoking, he wandered past us, squeezed through the fuel barrels, and entered the cockpit. Good to go and an indication we’d experienced the end of the in-flight service.
Numerous steel seats were folded against the fuselage. Enough of them unfolded and provided seating. There were no seat belts. We rolled and rumbled onto the runway, made our way toward one end, and turned. The engines accelerated for a moment, then backed off as the two pilots engaged in a heated Ukrainian argument. I kept an eye on Catch as this represented the type of situation where he was prone to take charge, often with his pistol pressed against someone’s head. Before he could make a move, the engines roared again, the plane shuddered, and we rolled along the runway. We exchanged unemotional stares, waiting for liftoff. The plane accelerated and shook and rattled and roared. Then success—airborne.
Not simple, not easy, and a baling-wire-and-duct-tape effort in many ways. But we’d made it. Armed, with transport, and soon enough we’d be at the border with Sudan. Game on. Coming at you, Musa Kibir. Say your prayers.
Chapter 30
The massif. A quarter-mile from the village of Arawala, a rocky stand-alone uplift among the sand and stone and scrub brush terrain. Photos showed it ran north to south, a half-mile long and three hundred yards wide. A knife-edge jutting from the arid turf with steep walls, rocky pinnacles, and narrow paths winding across the top. We had discerned a footpath from the small village that climbed and entered the south end of the nature-made castle.
The old plane bounced and bucked with the desert thermals, challenging our ability to study the printed satellite photos. Each searched and assessed with different perspectives. Bo sought an initial ingress point. From there, he’d scout, report, and position himself. Position himself to light the fuse. At Bo’s initial blasts, the rest would join battle with absolute ferocity. Attack, move, attack again.
Catch scoured the maps for the best cover-our-backs position. There were plenty of rock pinnacles scattered across the massif’s top, although capturing a thorough line-of-sight for the multiple small pathways that snaked across the stony environment wasn’t possible. He’d pick the location with the highest odds of warren-path visibility. And the odds were high that such a spot would leave him the most vulnerable as well. Not that he’d care.
Every thirty minutes or so, one of the Ukrainians would step into our cargo area and hand-pump a fuel drum empty, remove the pump, and place it into the next one. Then he’d return to the cabin. He paid us little or no heed, arrival in Goz Beïda his lone concern. Land safe, dump our butts, and haul it for another location where there was beer, booze, and women. They’d been paid cash by Maziq. My cash.
Marcus would focus on the big picture, including our approach to the massif, and our exit strategy. I scanned the satellite photos for the best sweeping attack position with consideration for Bo and Catch’s locations. With me was Marcus. He’d cover my immediate back as well as engage in the attack.
As we gathered and shared opinions and options prior to a definitive plan, the plane took a hard left, northward. A quick glimpse through one of the few windows explained why: a massive sandstorm over the Sahara. We flew at ten thousand feet, and the dark swirling storm below appeared to rise half our height. It was understandable you didn’t fly across one of those whirling dervishes. We added thirty minutes to our flight time with the maneuver.
Marcus gathered us and discussed strategy and tactics.
“We approach from the northwest,” he said. “The village is a quarter-mile south of the encampment, down the hill. We avoid it. Too many people. Here’s the vehicle stop point.”
He pointed toward a wadi or dry creek bed half a mile to the northwest of our objective.
“Roger that,” Catch said. “And I’m liking these ravines along the west side.”
Much of the massif’s uplift had near-vertical walls, several hundred yards high. Interspersed were narrow sharp ravines, which, while plenty steep, offered scalable access and decent cover among the scrub brush contained within them.
“This one,” Marcus said, pointing out a particular ravine. “South of the tents and tarps. Case and I enter there and sweep north.”
Sweep was a euphemism for kill every man we came across as we moved north.
“And I’m thinking this access,” Catch said, pointing toward a ravine north of the one Marcus proposed. It would position him near the middle of the Janjaweed camp. “At the top there’s a nice rocky peak. My spot.”
We disc
ussed pros and cons and settled on a plan. With one exception. Our spearhead.
“What are you thinking, Bo?” I asked.
His role was more than instigator of festivities. As first in, he’d scout, assess. Report via radio to the team. Affirm Musa Kibir’s presence. And that of his lieutenants. He’d position himself in the predawn blackness and wait until the clan arose and moved about. Hang among them without detection.
“Here,” he said, and pointed toward a ravine south of Marcus and my ingress point. “I’ll work east, then north.”
The massif’s eastern side consisted of sheer walls. There was no scrambling downhill if required. Just a long, long fall.
“Don’t like it,” Marcus said. “The east side hangs your butt too far out.”
“You forget, maestro, I carry my cloak of invisibility.”
“Bo, I’m not having you on their camp’s opposite side, away from the rest of us,” Marcus said.
“Footprints in the sand,” Bo said, smiling.
Catch popped me on the shoulder. “Translate.”
“An ecumenical reference?” I asked Bo.
“Not within this context. Oh, my brothers,” Bo said, rocking on his haunches with the plane’s movement. “Let’s not overlook the mundane, the common, the universal needs.”
“Okay,” I said toward Bo. “Okay. Universal needs. Like what?”
“A morning pee.”
We leaned in, focused on the highest magnification photos. Bo was onto something. Even Marcus took his statement with an element of gravity. He viewed Bo as more than a half-bubble off plumb, but sharp as anyone on the planet regarding scouting and assessment.
Pathways from tent to tarp to tent, well defined. And smaller, going-nowhere, less discernible paths from the front of living quarters toward each tented abode’s back side. Where the men peed, especially each morning.
“Most terminate eastward,” Bo said. “A sun salutation, perhaps. Along with peeing.”
“Kinda doubt the salutation,” I said, smiling. “But opportunity, for sure.”
“Awash with opportunity. Opportunity to confirm our quarry’s presence. And his three prime minions. A dawn revelation.”
“You have a point,” Marcus said. “But I still don’t like it. You’re too isolated from us.”
“Away but connected. In oh so many ways.”
“Including the radio,” I said, and glanced toward Marcus and Catch.
We discussed options and risks and settled on the plan. Bo would position on the east side long before dawn, Catch would make his way to his selected perch, and Marcus and I would assault northward once fighting commenced.
We each found a sleeping position and napped, woken often by a Ukrainian pumping fuel. The sun lowered, hours ticked off, individual adrenaline pumps were prepped and prepared. A steep banking turn woke us. We approached Goz Beïda, inside Chad, seventy miles from our final destination.
Tens of thousands of refugees within tents and under tarps were visible from the air, thin ribbons of campfire smoke numbering in the thousands. Makeshift portable buildings and warehouses for NGO administrators and doctors and food supplies. Still a mess, still no solution evident for these folks returning to the Darfur area of Sudan. To their homes. What was evident was that the Janjaweed still patrolled and killed and destroyed on the Sudan side of the border.
“We will not shut off the engines,” one of the Ukrainians announced after we landed on the clay runway and taxied toward an offloading area. He began hand-cranking the ramp even as we continued forward movement. It lowered much faster than it raised. “It is almost dark. We will leave.”
We unchained the small jeep and, once we’d stopped, backed it from the cargo hold and onto Chadian soil. The propellers increased, the plane began moving, and our last glimpse of the flight crew was a Ukrainian, cigarette dangling from his lips, desperately cranking the cargo ramp shut. They took off with a roar. Darkness approached.
We were not approached. NGO personnel could spot us in the fading light, no problem. Four armed men, one small jeep. Best for them not to ask questions or make demands. The vehicle signaled we were leaving. A signal sufficient to ensure they’d look the other way. It was quiet except for the strange low collective murmuring from the distant refugee camps. Folks worked on surviving another day as they gathered and cooked meager meals.
“Such sadness,” Bo said, scoping the area. “It fills this place.”
“You ever think about how lucky we are?” Catch asked no one in particular.
“Yeah,” I said. “All the time.”
We strapped our gear into the jeep’s small rear area. It was too small for everything, so we strapped rucksacks on the hood. I drove, Marcus alongside, Catch and Bo squeezed into the back seats. The half-moon and stars by the bushelful provided sufficient light for navigation. No headlights. We headed east.
“Keep it at twenty-five or thirty,” Marcus said, referencing our speed. “Two- or three-hour trip ahead. Slow and sure.”
“Not sure this little four-banger could top thirty with our weight,” I said. The Suzuki’s small engine protested—on flat ground—as it toted four men, supplies, and beaucoup ammo. Not a light load.
Far across the horizon, groupings of campfires. We avoided passage close to any camps. The signs of life faded as we moved east and approached the Sudan border. A powerful surreal sense filled me and, without doubt, each of us. Headed into the night, headed toward Sudan, headed toward the enemy. Four guys who hadn’t fought together in years. With used weapons from a Libyan desert warehouse, supplies from a US sporting goods store, and riding a last-legs vehicle. A jerry can filled with what we hoped was decent extra fuel was strapped to the rear as we rode without roof or windshield, exposed. A strange combined effort culminating in an attack against a Janjaweed stronghold. Yeah, surreal enough and more than a dollop or three of crazy.
“Let’s sing a song, my brothers,” Bo said. “It will uplift our spirits.”
“We’re not singing any songs,” Marcus said, checking his handheld GPS.
I turned onto an intersecting dirt road with a more southeasterly direction. Fine dust billowed from the rolling tires.
“I suggest ‘Men of Harlech,’” Bo said.
“We’re not Welsh, Bo,” I said.
“We are pressing forward with hearts unfailing,” he replied. “And we do carry a war-cry’s deafening thunder.”
Out of nowhere, Catch kicked it off, his voice deep and off-key. We knew a smattering of the words—at least for the first verse. Bo and I joined and belted it out. At “Echoes loudly waking,” Marcus lowered the GPS and with a headshake and a smile joined as well, adding his personal first line of “Off I march with crazy bastards.” As the volume rose, we croaked made-up words when we didn’t know the lyrics—words related to each other’s personal deficiencies. We tapered off after recycling the first verse twice, laughing and hurling insults at each other’s singing abilities while dust lifted under the tires and moonlight revealed an arid empty moonscape ahead.
We’d broken the spell, the malaise, the surreal headspace we’d occupied. Hell, yes, we were headed into battle. One raggedy-ass band of blood brothers, sure, but brothers who’d fought together in more tight spots than you could shake a stick at. And yeah, it had been a long, strange trip getting here, but here we were, and woe be to those poor SOBs sitting at the top of their massif a few hours away.
An hour later a dirt track carried us into Sudan.
“Alright, gents,” Marcus said. “From here on, everyone is the enemy.”
Chapter 31
We’d stop every few miles near a landscape rise so one of us could ascend, scout for campfires, and navigate around them. A close encounter of the wrong kind was the last thing we wanted. It also provided us the opportunity to stretch our legs—the tiny jeep afforded little leg and body room. The night passed; the air cooled. Every sense keyed, our small troop acutely aware we traversed enemy territory and were on our own.
No backups, no life flights, no fallback positions.
We gave the village of Garsila—the scene of our last Sudan visit as active duty Delta Force—a wide berth. Our final destination was near the village of Arawala five miles away. After an uneventful last few miles, we tucked the vehicle into a dry wadi a mile from the craggy uplift now visible across the low-hill terrain. We’d made it. Relief more than anticipation the predominant attitude. So much could have gone wrong, including the little jeep failing on the several-hour trip. But we’d achieved our prime logistical objective, undetected and loaded for bear.
We suited up. Marcus’s Zippo clacked open and fired a pre-battle cigar. We loaded our fatigue pockets and webbed vests with magazine after magazine of rifle ammo. Several extra magazines for the pistols. Fighting knives, field medical kits, several soft-sided water canteens. Hand grenades plucked from their small wooden crate. I took four. Bo, a dozen. He’d fight from an isolated position, and the grenades were a helluva deterrent for attackers. Not a word wasted on “wish we had night-vision scopes” or “wonder how many of them are up there.” Four professionals, jaws set, a mission ahead, and termination with extreme prejudice the order of the day.
“Radio check,” Marcus said.
We each separated several dozen yards and adjusted our earpiece mics. It was whisper time until it hit the fan.
“Right. We move as one for a half-mile, reconnoiter, and then split up,” Marcus said, his voice flat, emotionless.
“Roger that,” was returned twice. Bo returned a double tap against his earpiece; the light electronic knocks signified the same. He’d gone into stealth mode, a night stalker extraordinaire.
The half-mile was covered through sticking with low turf, ensuring we never profiled against the night sky. We adjusted equipment and supplies, repositioning them to remove movement-induced clatters. Small animals—rodents or other mammals—scuttled through thorn bush as we passed. The acrid aroma of desert plant life and flourlike dust filled the air. The massif loomed ahead; a few campfires twinkled amid the maze of topside irregular pathways.
