DARK HEARTED (The COIL Series)

by Telbat, D. I.

  "And you're interested in Memphis, too, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, but he's only part of it. On the flight into Alexandria, he showed me some sections in his Bible. I believe in Jesus. Now, I guess I just need to make it final or official or something."

  "You're sure you're ready?"

  June swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She looked across the desert plain. Even here, she knew there was a God. Even if she didn't know why bad things happened to innocent people, she felt that pursuing God would disclose some of those hidden truths.

  "Yeah, I'm ready."

  "Then let's pray. God sees and hears us, even in this desert foxhole." Corban looked up at the night sky, the stars blinking. The night was clear and cool. He took her hand in his. "I prayed this prayer almost seven years ago, and it changed my life. Pray what's on your heart, June; what you sense God has given you to say to Him."

  "Okay." June also gazed up at the sky.

  "Dear God, I don't have much of an excuse for not calling on You sooner, but here I am. I know I'm a sinner, but I believe You have a purpose in this world for me. Forgive me for my sins, please, for the sins that Jesus as God died for on the cross. Fill me with Your Spirit and change my life. Thank You, Lord. In Jesus' Name, amen."

  June finished the last few words through tears, and then wrapped her arms around Corban's neck and cried on his shoulder. Such was her sorrow that she had lived so long without her Creator. And such was her joy that she now accepted that enduring Lifeline.

  **~~~**

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the first time in June's life, she knew that she was going to heaven when she died. She didn't know much of anything about the Bible, but she knew right from wrong and she knew—rather than felt—that God would teach her the rest. And for the first time in her life, she knew what she believed in. So many unknowns were now solved in her mind, and she ached to share that fulfillment with others. All she had needed to do was open her heart.

  It was almost four o'clock in the morning. Every thirty minutes for the last three hours, June had taken turns running radio checks with Scooter, then Bruno, as they pulled watch shifts to the north. After Corban had left her foxhole around eleven, she had nearly passed out from exhaustion and slept without moving, sitting upright and leaning against the wall of her hole. When Brauch woke her at one, June was instantly alert, ready to guard the team, as well as the camp. For three hours, she had browsed the rolling flatness to the east. The night scope made it seem like daylight, and she could see for miles—coyotes, a few wild sheep, but no humans.

  Her watch beeped. She touched her earpiece.

  "Radio check," she said. It was June's turn to query.

  "Yeah, radio check," Bruno responded. "Nothing moving. Over."

  "Nothing here, either. It's Corban's watch. I'm going to go wake him."

  "Ten-four, December. Then catch a few winks until daylight. Might get a little busy today. Out."

  June smiled. December. That wasn't a bad handle, though born from adversity. And the COIL team would never forget her bout against Vulgar in Berlin's underground.

  One more time, she studied the desert, then crawled out of her hole. She walked swiftly and hunched over to Corban's forward foxhole. No wonder she hadn't seen any movement from him. He wasn't even there!

  His hole was large enough for only one body. She didn't like the idea of standing exposed, so she climbed inside. Through her scope, she checked for movement to the east and south again. There were no enemies on the prowl, but now she needed to find Corban. No need to panic. After sweeping the land to the west, she spotted him right away. Back about a mile, he was digging with the entrenching shovel. Behind and in front of him, spaced at fifty-yard intervals, were small piles of dirt from foxholes he had dug. He'd been awake all night working! She kept her eye on him and cued her radio.

  "Corban, do you copy?"

  He stopped digging, checked his watch, and then reached for his own comm.

  "This is Corban. Go ahead, December. Over."

  "Do you want me to keep watch? I see you're busy. Over."

  "How tired are you? Over."

  "I'm wide awake now. We've only got a couple hours until daylight, anyway. Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be fine. Over."

  "Roger. Thanks. Over and out."

  Picking up his shovel, Corban moved one hundred yards north, and started another foxhole. June watched the man dig for a moment, then returned to her own trench. She realized she had greatly underestimated the COIL founder. He was more than just the brains behind the outfit; he was the brawn, too. But could he use the weapons he toted, as well as the others?

  Between watching for riders and tracking Corban's trenching, the last two hours of darkness passed quickly. Before six o'clock, she woke Brauch, and Bruno woke Scooter. Corban jogged past her and climbed into his foxhole and they all waited and listened for the drone of a high-flying plane.

  Daylight came. Corban voiced a prayer on their comm-system. He even mentioned December joining the family of God, then they waited in silence again.

  The sun rose. As he ran a radio check, Corban reminded everyone to have their packs ready to go in case they had to move suddenly—or if they had to ditch their packs altogether—but to keep their ammo pouches and canteens no matter what.

  "This isn't good, Boss," Scooter said. "The refugees are probably cooking the Westons for breakfast by now."

  June glanced back at the camp. The plane was late, but the camp was burning something. Four columns of black smoke rose from the drop-zone.

  "Come…down there? Over," the radio crackled.

  "You're breaking up, Memphis," Corban responded. "Come again. Over."

  Watching the blue sky to the north, June searched for an approaching dot. Memphis was up there somewhere. She mouthed a prayer for his safety.

  "Corban, this is Memphis. Do you copy? Over."

  On the far horizon to the east, a flash of light and a puff of smoke caught June's eye. A few seconds later, the sound of an explosion, a dull thud, came to her ears. Two more explosions followed, then she saw the flying dot coming toward them.

  "Memphis, we copy. What's your status? Over."

  "We're on target. A little behind. Taking on fire from ground forces. Our heading is two-seven-zero at ten thousand feet. You guys asleep or do you have a welcome party for us? Over."

  "The drop-zone is ready to welcome your gifts, Memphis. What's your ETA? Over."

  The plane flew in from the east, which was wisest, June thought, since the Janjaweed would follow the plane right into their defenses. Obviously, Corban had done this sort of thing before.

  "ETA: two minutes. You've got hostiles inbound. We've taken fire. Shrapnel has damaged the fuselage, but nothing bad. Over."

  "Can you give us a head count of the enemy? Over."

  "Yeah, Boss, this is Johnny. I'm looking at two waves of about fifty each—coming right at you on our tail. They're about five miles out. Over."

  "Roger, Johnny. You should see our smoke. See you tonight. Over."

  "I see your smoke. Thanks. Makes our job a little easier. Careful down there. We'll come back from the Nile as soon as we can. Out."

  Two miles above the ground, the plane hummed overhead. A stream of two dozen parachutes caught air behind the plane, large bundles of provisions suspended beneath. They floated to the earth, right on target over the camp. June sighed with relief that the Janjaweed hadn't downed the plane with their anti-aircraft missiles.

  "Hey, Boss, what do our pellets do to horses? Over."

  "Bruno, I don't have a clue, but you shouldn't be aiming at the horses, anyway. If they're five miles out, figure ten minutes from right now until we see them. They'll be at a dead run, making for the camp. Hold your fire, team, until they're within range. Remember, these pellets only take them out for twenty minutes. Keep track of your downed targets because they'll be getting up after twenty minutes. Snipers, your dart tranqs last an hour. Let's hope we don't need al
l that time. Radio silence unless there's something urgent. As soon as we can, hobble the targets, so have your flex-cuffs ready. Over."

  They all stared motionlessly to the east. Behind them, the food crates fell upon Kalma. The people were surely rejoicing.

  Ten minutes passed.

  "This is Brauch. The first wave is within my range. Over."

  "Handle it, Brauch," Corban approved.

  #######

  Since Scooter would systematically chisel away at the enemy flank, Brauch aimed carefully between two riders on the right. He squeezed off a shot, knowing that the five tranq darts in each round had a spread of five feet at one thousand yards. Different from the pellet guns powered by CO2, the NL-X1 rounds were explosive cartridges, so the darts covered the long distance accurately and swiftly. The round's velocity was subsonic, so the sound was distorted by the barrel's suppressor.

  Unlike his violent past, Brauch did not enjoy this work, but he knew he had the skills that others didn't, so he applied what he knew to save lives. More than anyone else, even Rupert Mach, Brauch felt a bond with Corban Dowler. When he looked into the expressionless eyes of the old spy, Brauch sensed that Corban felt the same way as he did—that it was a blessed burden to turn the skills of his past into skills that made a difference for God.

  By the time Brauch worked the bolt action for another round, the water-soluble needles had traveled the two-thirds of a mile. He saw a horse stumble and knew his aim had been true. Two men slumped suddenly in their saddles, then fell off their horses. The Janjaweed seemed oblivious to the downed men as they continued their charge.

  #######

  June watched through her spotting scope as Brauch took another pair down, then Scooter did the same from the left. The Janjaweed still charged, even with six men down. They whipped their horses tirelessly. The militia was not made up of blacks only. There were lighter-skinned soldiers, as well, maybe Egyptians, June guessed, but all wore bandoliers over tattered, loose clothing—still stained with the blood and tears of their last victims.

  Beginning to tremble, June scoped the background behind this first wave, yet the second wave was still too far away to be seen through the dust of the first. June counted as Brauch and Scooter fired rounds. By the time they had emptied their first twelve-round magazine, only six men remained in their saddles! Numerous horses staggered drunkenly, and some had lain down as the narcotic intoxicated them, yet it was not strong enough to knock the horses out completely.

  Watching with the rest of the team, June saw the remaining six Janjaweed reign in their horses. The animals pranced about anxiously as their riders rallied and discussed their concerns over continuing the advance against an unseen force. The Janjaweed had halted at five hundred yards and seemed not to fathom what foe was between them and the food they sought to steal in the camp. As the six riders talked about their options, the snipers had time to reload. The tranq spread would be much smaller now, so there would be no success in doubling up targets. Scooter and Brauch took down one more man each.

  The four remaining horsemen spun their horses around and tore off to the east where the second wave of dust billowed closer.

  #######

  "Cover me!" Corban commanded on the comm as he lunged from his foxhole. "I'm securing the downed targets!"

  Alone, Corban sprinted across the desert to the east. On his shoulders rattled one NL-3, a full canteen, and an ammo pouch. In his hands, he carried his primary NL-3 and dozens of plastic flex-cuffs.

  "You'll never make it in time!" Scooter voiced. "He should wait until after the second wave!"

  "It might be too late by then," Brauch reasoned. "When the first wave wakes up, we'll have more than we can handle on our hands, and not enough ammo. You better hurry, Mr. Dowler."

  The second wave, however, was held up at twelve hundred yards as the four escaped riders from the first wave reported their crushed charge.

  "He might reach them," Bruno said. "The Boss might even hobble a few of them, but he'll never make it back if those riders start charging again. Over."

  Though Corban heard their concerns in his ear, he didn't respond. His lungs burned, but he didn't slow. He couldn't. If the attack lasted all day like he thought it would, the ones they had already shot would wake up after an hour—as Brauch had suggested. They would surely rejoin the fight unless he hobbled them now.

  Like a base runner sliding into home base, Corban slid to the side of the first unconscious Janjaweed soldier at five hundred yards. Like a rodeo roper, he worked quickly, pulling the man's hands behind his back, zip-tying them, then his ankles to his wrists. He dashed to the next one.

  "You've got it, Boss!" coached Bruno. "We'll tell you when they're coming. Over."

  Not looking up or acknowledging, he ran to the next and the next until he was at seven hundred yards where the first pair of riders lay, taken earlier by a single shot. Now, he was closer to the enemy than anyone else was, and it wouldn't take the Janjaweed much strain on their eyes to see through the rising heat waves that a solitary enemy was moving through their seemingly dead comrades.

  "Here they come, Boss!" Scooter shouted. "Get back here!"

  Mid-step, Corban froze. He'd only tied twenty of the forty-six strewn across the desert. He glanced at the few horses still about. Those that had not been hit had fled east with empty saddles, but those that were tranquilized were too drunk to climb on to flee back to his team.

  Dropping to his knees, he tied one more soldier. Behind him, he could feel the charge of pounding hooves through the ground.

  "Corban…run!" June screamed through his comm. "Just leave them!"

  And Corban ran as if his life depended on it, because it did. He crunched the figures in his mind as he bounded over rippling sand and stone. The world's fastest thoroughbred could maintain an excess of thirty-seven miles-per-hour, and he was probably sprinting a little slower than half that speed. Still, AK-47 rounds danced all around him. The maximum effective range for the Janjaweed 7.62mm rounds was four hundred meters. They were closing on that distance fast.

  "They're almost in my range," Brauch stated calmly. "Bring them right to us, Mr. Dowler."

  When the Janjaweed crossed the thousand-yard threshold of the sniper rifles, Corban knew that Scooter and Brauch would open fire as one. Behind him, four leading riders fell from their saddles, but the charge didn't slow. Fifty riders bent low as they rode, partially hiding behind their horses' necks to offer hardly any target.

  "I've got no shot!" Scooter gasped.

  "Go for the horses!" Brauch instructed sharply. "Or the riders' legs!"

  The few riders who did sit up, fired their assault rifles at Corban. Their aim on horseback wasn't accurate, but it took only one lucky round to send him sprawling.

  Corban went down in a puff of dust at four hundred fifty yards. The riders were closing on eight hundred yards away from the rest of the team.

  #######

  June stared at the heap that was once Corban, now seeming to be lifeless. Her trigger finger ached for some firing time, but the range was still too great for the pellet guns. Wiping at a dusty tear, she tried not to hate the soldiers who had raped and maimed so many, and had now taken out their team leader. She tried to see her involvement as the ingredient that would finish the conflict and get Corban medical attention, if he was still alive.

  "They're gonna trample him!" June cried out.

  The riders headed straight for Corban's body. The Janjaweed dropped from their saddles left and right, but more than thirty still remained and kept charging.

  Whatever the riders' intentions, the horses were not blind. Instead of trampling Corban, they jumped over the fallen mass, their hooves barely passing over his motionless form. June breathed a sigh of relief.

  At four hundred yards, the snipers picked off the horses and riders one at a time. Behind the riders, several Janjaweed were on foot, jogging after their comrades, their horses disabled. Every soldier had surely seen the provision drop and wanted
a part in sacking the camp.

  Through her scope, June saw that at two hundred yards, the riders finally spotted the foxholes around and behind June and Brauch. They pointed them out to one another. But it didn't seem like they'd seen the holes several hundred yards to the north where Scooter and Bruno lay. Trembling with anticipation, June hid in the bottom of her hole as bullets thudded into the sand around her.

  Suddenly, there was a brief recess in the firing. She rose and pulled the trigger of her NL-3 at the eighteen remaining horsemen. At one hundred yards, the pellets peppered the horses' faces. The animals panicked and reared, then split off in every direction. Brauch started using his NL-3 since they were now in range. Scooter, from the far north, continued to shoot at the riders with his NL-X1, but the riders were in such disarray that he hit only one out of five shots. Without a radio in the hand of every man, the Janjaweed had no coordination, fortunately.

  The pellets had an instant sleeping effect on the horses as they snorted in the toxic vapors. As soon as the riders were exposed, June and Brauch pelted them in the head and chest.

  Three riders managed to slip through the team's line of defense, and June twisted around to shoot at their backs. When the three Janjaweed soldiers noticed they were separated from their fellow riders, they circled north to regroup with others that had scattered, only to come face to face with Scooter and Bruno. A brief explosion of gunfire sounded as the soldiers attempted to pass the two COIL members. Two more riders fell.

  Over a dozen men on foot jogged to the north to assault Scooter and Bruno. Near June and Brauch, downed horses littered the sand. Riders hid behind the horses, firing occasionally at the two defenders, but the sand piles on the edge of the team's foxholes were stopping the bullets from much dangerous effect.

  As if on some signal, the Janjaweed militants stopped firing and hid from sight behind whatever cover they could find. Four scathed, riderless horses trotted southeast, but there were still one hundred men on foot on the plain, and nearly that many horses staggering or walking about.