PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (3 page)

From the back seat of the Land Rover, Colonel Kapur interrupted, speaking through the open window. “Corporal, the RUF wouldn’t dare come into the exclusion zone during the cease-fire. These men here must be locals and there are only three of them. We will simply approach and discuss our access to the Kilimi camp.”

Bishop glanced down at the senior officer and nodded. “Mirza, the Colonel might be right about this lot.”

Mirza raised an eyebrow.  

Bishop continued. “Odds are they’re just a local militia group trying to make a few dollars by charging the locals passage. As long as we don’t provoke them we should be able to bribe our way through the checkpoint.”

Mirza pointed up the road at the vehicle. “Do you want me to take some of the men up there and find out what they want?”

The Colonel made to speak but Bishop interrupted him. “No, the Colonel and I will go talk to them.”

“OK, Sir, but we will be ready.”

“Good. Tell your men to stay with the vehicles but be prepared to follow us up. The last thing we want to do is provoke a bunch of trigger-happy militia.” He pointed out their current location on the map. “If they won’t let us through, the camp is only on the other side of this crest. We can always double back and approach along one of these small tracks with a recon party.” Bishop trusted Mirza. Everything about the smaller man inspired confidence, from his well-pressed uniform and immaculately cleaned rifle to his steady, almost icy demeanor. Even the thin moustache was fitting; he was a born warrior and Bishop had no doubt the blood of India’s fiercest warriors ran strong in his veins.

“Understood, Sir.” Mirza gave a nod and headed back to his section. The other nine soldiers had already dismounted and were quietly dispersed in the dense foliage either side of the track.

Bishop opened the rear door of the Land Rover and Colonel Kapur reluctantly pried his rotund body from the back seat. A twitch appeared at the corner of the senior officer’s eye as he stepped into the mud. “It might be better for me to stay in the vehicle,” he said. “We don’t want to appear overly intimidating to these men.”

No chance of that, thought Bishop. You look like the Indian version of Elton John. “Should be OK, Sir. They’ll probably respect an officer of your rank.”

“Yes, good point, Lieutenant,” the senior officer replied unconvincingly, adjusting the beret perched on his balding, perspiring head.

They walked steadily uphill towards the checkpoint, two figures in stark contrast. The corpulent Colonel in dress uniform waddled behind Bishop’s athletic frame clad in distinctive Australian combat fatigues.

As they drew closer, Bishop wasn’t surprised to see the gunmen were only teenagers. He knew they had probably been forced into the militia as child soldiers.

They were all wearing grubby, torn jeans and sported the usual talismans and charms to ward off bullets. He smiled grimly as he noticed one of them wearing a bright red life jacket over his bare torso; some of the Africans had strange ideas regarding protective equipment.

The tallest of the boys was leaning against the hood of the vehicle, a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. He waited until the approaching men were only a few meters away, then jerked upright, hefted his rifle and gestured to his comrades. The smaller boy who was casually cradling a rifle, stepped forward and slowly raised his hand for the UN officers to stop. The third swivelled the heavy machinegun towards them from the back of the rusted pick-up.

The two Peacekeepers stopped only a few paces away. Bishop was close enough to notice their eyes were glazed. He nervously slid his hand to the grip of the
Browning 9mm
nestled against his hip. It was the norm for UN officers to only carry handguns, but faced with three heavily armed gunmen, Bishop wished he’d insisted on being issued a rifle. He carefully positioned himself a few paces back from the Colonel, slightly out of the immediate firing line, aware that drugs and alcohol could result in unpredictable behavior.

A sideways glance at the battered Toyota pick-up caused Bishop’s stomach to lurch. Jammed onto the spike of a snapped side view mirror was a severed human head. Flies crawled into the open eyes and a black bloated tongue protruded between decaying lips. The putrid smell assaulted the young Lieutenant’s senses and he struggled to keep his composure, the taste of bile filling his mouth.

All three gunmen were staring intently at the gold braid decorating Colonel Kapur’s uniform, like children intrigued by the costume of a clown. The tall youth with the cigarette stepped forward confidently, pointing at Kapur.

“You some kinda big boss man?” His words were slurred. He reeked of alcohol and unwashed sweat. “My name is General Terminator!” The young African stabbed his thumb into his bare chest then swept his arms wide. “An dis here area is under control of dah West Side Boys!”

The hairs on Bishop’s neck rose. He realized the checkpoint could only mean one thing, the rest of the gang was already in the refugee camp. It was going to be the Songo massacre all over again.

The youths were members of one of the most feared RUF groups in Sierra Leone; a gang that raped pregnant women and sliced open their bellies to gamble on the sex of an unborn child.

Kapur froze, unable to respond, much to the amusement of the West Side Boys. “Who is da big boss now, man? Run back to your momma before the Terminator kill you all!” the gunman screamed. He was completely unintimidated, his ego fuelled by the UN officer’s fear and a cocktail of alcohol and drugs.

Bishop spoke up, stepping closer to the Colonel. “We just need to get to the camp,” he stated calmly, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from shaking.

The leader of the small group spat at him, “Fuck off you white Yankee fuck. You not going anywhere.”

Before Bishop could respond, Kapur grasped his arm, pulling him away. “We need to go now, Lieutenant.” The man’s voice trembled with fear.

The younger officer lowered his voice, “Sir, I am going to offer them a bribe. It might change their minds.” He was intent on reaching the camp.

“No, Lieutenant Bishop. You will— ”

Sharp, rapid cracks of gunfire in the distance cut him off and his eyes widened with fear. More bursts of automatic fire accompanied by screams and shouts.

The West Side Boys started whooping like animals, jumping up and down in the middle of the track, punching their weapons in the direction of the refugee camp. They laughed, making crude gestures at the Colonel. “Don’t be afraid, big boss. We will save some of da young girls for you.”

Rage and shame boiled up in Bishop as he imagined the RUF gang sweeping through the camp, raping women and mutilating men. Images of the aftermath of the Songo massacre flashed through his mind.

Stepping behind the petrified Colonel to block the boys’ view, he disengaged his pistol holster’s thumb-brake. Grabbing Kapur roughly by the front of his shirt, he pulled him close enough to smell the rancid stench of the man’s sweat.

“I’ll shoot you myself if you try to stop me. Now give me the cash,” Bishop snarled. The Colonel looked stunned. Hand shaking, he pulled a thick yellow envelope from his pocket and passed it to the Australian.

Bishop caught the eye of Mirza cautiously walking up the muddy track. He gave the Indian a sly hand signal and turned to face the crazed gunmen. They were laughing with each other, excited at the prospect of some action.

Bishop’s confidence drained away as he assessed the situation. Deep in his gut he knew it was too risky to try to negotiate with the RUF ‘General’; the mix of drugs and alcohol in the youth’s bloodstream would make him irrational and impulsive. Clammy with sweat, he wiped his right hand on his pants. His chest tightened, constricting his breathing.

Swallowing nervously, he forced himself to address the young gunman. “Please, General Terminator, what is happening? Who is firing?” Bishop meekly moved closer to the teenager, his left hand waving the wad of US currency to draw his attention. “Can we pay you to get through to the camp?”

“I told you to fuck off, Yankee. Take your fucking money and go home before I cut off your hands as well!” Terminator cackled like a jackal, turning back to grin at his two comrades. “Short sleeves or long sleeves?” He laughed at the joke, enjoying the attention of being the big man.

Bishop realized in a panic the seriousness of the situation. With only a pistol he was faced off against three RUF fighters with automatic weapons.

Terminator’s expression abruptly became serious and he swung his rifle towards Bishop. Cocking it, his voice took on a savage tone. “Go home, Yankee pig, or General Terminator will blow your head off and fuck you right up!”

Bishop tensed as Terminator’s weapon pointed directly at him. In his mind he could see the bullet leaving the barrel and burying itself in his stomach. The youth looked back towards his companions, and Bishop snapped. He leapt forward pushing the barrel of the rifle away from his body and in one smooth action drew his pistol from its holster. The Browning barked twice in quick succession, the 9mm rounds smashing into Terminator’s sternum, ripping through his heart, blowing its remains out through the back of his rib cage. The teenager toppled backwards into the mud, a look of shock on his face. A choking sound came from his throat as his shattered lungs filled with blood.

Bishop had never shot anyone before, but the severity of the act didn’t even have time to register. Without thinking he adopted a two handed grip and adjusted his aim to target the second youth who was bringing his rifle up. The fore-sight and rear-sight aligned on the gunman’s head. Bishop fired rapidly. Two rounds went wide but the third penetrated the teen’s skull spraying his brain across the side of the battered Toyota pickup, streaks of blood and grey-matter blending with the rust.

The blast of Mirza’s
AK-47
snapped Bishop out of his instinctive shooting as the third gunman was blown over the tailgate of the Toyota; the red lifejacket shredded by the heavy bullets. The Indian moved forward deliberately, his AK-47 tight in against his shoulder, alert to the possibility of additional fighters.

“Are they all dead Sir?” Mirza asked as he pushed past the pickup to scan the jungle ahead.

“Yeah, you did well Corporal,” Bishop replied, trying to sound confident. “There were only three of them.”

He holstered his pistol and knelt next to the corpse of Terminator, hands shaking as he stripped ammunition and equipment from the body. Bishop avoided looking at the lifeless face of the teenager. This kid looks like he should be in high school, he thought. What the fuck was he doing out here? What was he doing with a gang of animals like the West Side? Did I have to shoot him?  He shook his head and shoved the thoughts from his mind; now was not the time for questions. He was now committed to saving the refugees, even if it meant he had to kill more.

Bishop was aware he was blatantly breaching his rules of engagement. The UN Mandate hammered through this brain, again and again, the inhumane futility of it. In the distance a woman screamed. A long, shrill scream. Fuck this!
he thought. His mind was set and he was not going to dwell on the consequences. Instead he grabbed the ammunition and weapons from the other slain gunmen and hurried back to the UN vehicles.

Chapter 4

Refugee Camp

Colonel Kapur stood in shock as Bishop speed-sorted his equipment on the hood of the Land Rover. Checking his map, he identified a concealed route into the refugee camp and stuffed the document back into his thigh pocket. He swiftly stripped the battered
G3 assault rifle
he had taken from Terminator’s corpse, checking its serviceability. As he methodically inspected the components, Mirza and two of the other soldiers approached.

Bishop scrutinized the rifle as he spoke, “You know what I have to do.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mirza murmured, glancing over at the Colonel, then back to Bishop.

“I can’t ask you to come with me.”

“Three of us will go with you. The others will stay here and look after the Colonel and the driver.”

“Be ready to move in two minutes.”

Bishop reassembled the rifle, satisfied that it would work reliably. He slammed home a magazine and cocked it, placing the other four magazines into the pockets of his shirt and pants. This is the first and last time I go outside the wire without body armor and a rifle
,
he reminded himself. Hastily, he tied a short length of cord around the stock of the weapon, allowing it to hang from his shoulder. Finally he changed the magazine in his pistol and re-holstered it. Ready for action. He glanced at the Colonel and tossed the thick wad of bribe money at him.

“Stay here, Sir. If we don’t come back within the hour, leave for Freetown.”

Kapur nodded, staying silent, horrified at the calm demeanor of the young man who had just slain two teenage gunmen. It was clear what Aden was going to do next.

Bishop gathered Mirza and the two other soldiers in front of the Bedford truck. “OK, men, we don’t have much time.” Gunshots still echoed intermittently from the direction of the camp and ominously, the screaming had stopped. “We’re going to the camp and we’ll do whatever we must to protect the refugees. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” they replied in unison.

Bishop looked the group over and continued. “I appreciate you all backing me up.” When this was over, Bishop knew that Colonel Kapur would punish them.

“Sir, we wouldn’t let you go on your own.”

Bishop gave Mirza a nod, then pulled out his map. “Alright, we’re going to move down this track through the jungle, avoiding the main road. Stay with me, I’ll lead. Understood?” 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Alright, job's on, let’s roll.”

Bishop, weapon ready, eyes scanning the thick vegetation, moved swiftly despite the steep slope of the track, sliding through the dark soil and rotting leaf litter. The three other men kept pace, patrolling silently behind him.