PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (10 page)

       "Yes. When we have found the men responsible for the attack I will help you destroy them."

       Yang's pocket buzzed twice as a message reached his phone. He moved away to check the device, leaving Sagrib with the helicopter. The message contained a number of photos. He selected one that showed a man's face and took it to Sagrib.

       "Do you know this man?" he asked.

       The Janjaweed commander studied the photo. "Yes, his name is Garang. He is an American, born of a bastard Dinka who ran from his duties like a scared dog."

       "How do you know him?"

       "
He came to Khartoum with the Dinka chief. I wanted to kill him as well, but Omar would not allow it. He said he is not the same as the others. He is American so he is greedy."

       "Greed can be a powerful motivator. How many men do you think he has?"

       "Don't know: twenty, maybe thirty. Not as many thanks to the helicopter." He laughed displaying his toothless gums.

       "Was he the one who warned the villagers in Kaljak and killed one of your men?"

       "Could be. One of the infidel dogs said an American Dinka did it."

       "He is certainly audacious, I will give him that. It takes determination to strike deep into enemy territory."

       "I do it every day," spat the Janjaweed commander.  "Do you really think he did this?" Sagrib pointed towards the burnt out front gate.

       "I think we both know the answer to that."

       "From your spies, yes?"

       Yang nodded.

       Sagrib smashed his fist into his palm. "I should have killed the American when I had a chance. I will find him, his men, their families, and I will kill them all."

       "If you get word of his camp pass it to me immediately," said Yang as the pair walked back to the waiting Janjaweed.

       "Yes, yes. And I have more men coming. Will you have more vehicles?"

       "Five more fast attack vehicles are arriving tomorrow with another shipment of heavy weapons and ammunition. My men will fit the machine guns to your trucks."

       Sagrib nodded. "When we find their camp you will bring the helicopter, yes?"

       "Of course. You find them and we will destroy them together."

Chapter 16

20km North of Juba, South Sudan

       In South Sudan another team was preparing to join the war. Mirza had driven across the border from Ethiopia two days earlier. He had rented a small house in Juba, paying a full month's rent in cash before scoping the situation in town. Mirza was not one for tourism but he visited the bars, restaurants and markets to get a feel for what was happening. In cargo pants, a khaki shirt and combat boots, with his heavy beard he looked like any of the mining, oil, security or NGO contractors floating around Africa. His Asiatic features could have come from a dozen different regions though his passport claimed he was a British national.

       Within forty-eight hours of arriving in Juba, Mirza was ready to meet the next member of the PRIMAL team. He had driven his four-wheel drive to the RV location just after sunrise. Ten kilometers out from Juba he had followed an overgrown track off the main road. Parked in a dry riverbed amongst dense vegetation, he waited patiently to make contact with the incoming aircraft.

       Mirza grabbed his iPRIMAL from the dashboard and checked the combat interface. Dragonfly's icon showed it was a little over fifty kilometers out: just under ten minutes flying time. He tapped the screen and opened a line of communication.

       "Dragonfly, this is Wildcat. LZ is secure. Awaiting delivery of the package."

       Mitch, the pilot, responded immediately. "Wildcat, I read you loud and clear. Got you on scope. We're approx seven mikes out."

       "Roger."

       "You better have a martini ready when I get there," said another voice.

       "A bottle of cold H2O if you're lucky, Aden," broadcast Mirza.

       "Wow sounds great. Good thing I'm bringing my own. See you on the ground in five," replied Bishop from inside the aircraft.

       Mirza got out of his vehicle and used the last few minutes of the aircraft's approach to give the area around the wadi a quick scan. Apart from a family of warthogs hunting for grubs, it was all clear.

       He slid the iPRIMAL from the pocket of his cargo pants and held it up in front of his face. On the screen he could see the flat ground to his front digitally overlaid with the landing zone he had marked. The same image would appear in Mitch's heads-up display, showing him the exact location and dimensions.

       In the distance he could hear the faint drone of Dragonfly. It grew louder as the speck on the horizon rapidly increased in size. The warthog family bolted into a thicket of swamp grass as the aircraft cycled through its landing process, the two giant blades pitching skyward as it moved into a hover. The aircraft dropped towards the LZ, slowing as the powerful blades bit into the air. A wall of dust slammed into the wadi, stinging Mirza's skin, forcing him to close his eyes.

       Mitch brought the craft in with skill and it touched down gently in the middle of the LZ. The side door was already open and a number of bundles dropped to the ground. Finally a figure jumped out and dropped to a knee as the Dragonfly powered away, driving even more sand into the air.

       In a pair of faded blue jeans and a lightweight khaki shirt, the PRIMAL operative had an old blue 'New York Yankees' cap on his head, tufts of hair sticking out under it. Instead of boots he wore heavy-duty trail running shoes, something that irked Mirza. Running shoes provided no ankle protection when moving through rough terrain.

       Mirza waited for the dust to settle before he walked over to help with the gear.

       "Welcome to Africa, Aden."

       "Good to be back, mate." Bishop took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. "It's been far too long," he said as he hugged his long-time friend. Sporting the start of a beard, it gave him a scruffy look that, together with his dark eyes and crooked nose, gave him the appearance of a troublemaker.

       He grabbed the bags and followed Mirza into the wadi where the four-wheel drive was parked.

       "A Bowler!" Bishop exclaimed. "Where the hell did you get a
Bowler Wildcat
?"

       Mirza grinned, the tan colored four-wheel drive looked like a fairly standard Land Rover soft top but closer observation revealed a few key giveaways to the true nature of the truck. On either side of the bonnet were a pair of air intakes that allowed the supercharged 4.0 liter V8 to suck in all the oxygen it needed. The roll cage had also been modified; hidden by a canvas sun shade was a machine gun ring mount. The Wildcat was basically a rally car with teeth.

       Mirza patted the bonnet. "In Ethiopia I asked Mitch for a fast truck and this is what he gave me."

       Bishop laughed as he unzipped one of his bags, pulling out his
AK104
assault rifle and a chest rig. He dumped the bags in the back of the Bowler, and with his weapon and ammunition climbed into the passenger seat.

       "Didn't you see one of these on 'Top Gear'?" asked Bishop. It was well known that Mirza was a fan of the show. "You must have mentioned it to Mitch." PRIMAL's resident technician, top gun pilot and all round Mr Fix-It was renowned for his ability to get the team anything they wanted.

       Mirza turned over the engine and the Bowler started with a throaty rumble. "Now that's what I'm talking about," said Bishop. "How far is it back to Juba?"

       "About twenty kilometers."

       Bishop checked the digital map on his iPRIMAL. "Terrain's pretty tough but I reckon you can get this beast to the safehouse in under fifteen minutes."

       He caught a glimpse of a smile through the smaller man's beard as Mirza pushed the accelerator to the floor. Bishop was thrown back in his seat. The Bowler roared like an enraged rhino and accelerated out of the riverbed.

       "I read your report," yelled Bishop while Mirza rallied the Bowler down the dirt track, the engine howling through the quiet morning air. "The girl, Jess, she's a long way from home. Pretty little thing out here in the sticks. Have you had a chance to meet her?"

       Mirza shook his head. "No, I thought that would be better left to you. You always have better luck with the ladies."

       Bishop laughed. "That's very charitable of you, Mirza. From what it sounds like she's already taken."

       "Yes, one of the NGOs said she was seeing the American freedom fighter."

       "This guy Garang?"

       "That's the one. According to our sources in Juba, he's trying to raise an army to fight the Janjaweed. There are rumors he launched a raid into Sudan to hit the Chinese refinery."

       "Well, credit where credits due. At least he's doing something. I wish the same could be said for the rest of the SPLA," Bishop said referring to Southern Sudan's official defense force. "So, when are we meeting her?"

       "Tomorrow. That gives us a bit of time to check things out around Juba and follow up on a few leads."

       "Sounds good, but first things first; let's sort out some breakfast."

Chapter 17

Juba, South Sudan

       "Doctor Hutton, there is a man here to see you." The orderly stuck his head into the room as Jess was finishing up with a patient.

       "One minute, Michael." She tied off the final suture in the young boy's arm. "So brave!" She pulled the rubber gloves from her hands and gave the three-year-old a lollipop. The toddler had fallen on a sharp piece of tin slicing open his forearm. Without proper treatment he probably would have lost his arm. "Bring him back in one week, OK," she told the child's mother.

       "Thank you, Doctor Hutton." The child's mother thrust a bag of fruit into her arms.

       "Oh, thank you!" Jess had tried to refuse her patients' gifts in the past. She had learned since then that this offended them.

       She gave the boy a pat on the head, tucked the fruit under her arm and left the treatment room. Michael was waiting for her outside. "He is in your office, Doctor."

       Jess walked down the dimly lit corridor to her small office. She opened the door and was greeted by a stranger wearing a baseball cap and sporting a light beard.

       "Doctor Hutton, my name is Aden." He removed his cap, uncovering a shock of dark hair, and offered her a hand.

       "Please call me Jess. Everyone does." She placed the fruit on her desk and grasped the man's hand noticing how rough it was. She studied his face: to her he had kind eyes, dark brown with wrinkles around them suggesting he laughed a lot. His jaw line was strong, his nose crooked and his smile roguish. Jess put his age at around thirty-five. His slight accent threw her: a tinge of American, but something else, something crisper. Maybe he was from Boston or maybe he'd spent time in England.

       "Thank you for taking the time to see me, Jess. No doubt you are a very busy woman."

       "It's never quiet, that's for sure."

       "I think what you're doing here is pretty damn special," said Bishop honestly. "It takes a certain kind of person to give up life in the developed world and throw themselves into this environment. Not everyone can do it."

       She blushed and looked down at her desk.

       Bishop had already seen her photo attached to her intel file. He knew Jess looked pretty, but in person she was even more so. Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a white medical jacket, her long brown hair in a ponytail, she looked utterly desirable. Grey eyes, wide full lips, a roundish face and a button nose; not the sort of woman he usually pursued, but definitely highly attractive.

       "I wanted to talk to you about your dealings with South Sudanese fighters."

       "What about them?" The coy embarrassment disappeared from her face and her soft features hardened.

       "I take it that a number of the groups bring their wounded here."

       "This is Africa, Aden. I see a lot of war wounded. Not all of them are fighters." She crossed her arms across her chest.

        "Of course. I apologize if I've thrown you a little." He pulled a card from his shirt and handed it across. "I'm from an independent US organization. We want to inject aid into South Sudan."

       Jess examined the card suspiciously. Christians In Africa: C.I.A.

       Aden certainly fit the mold of a US Government operative: well-built, bearded, the obligatory khaki shirt and baseball cap. No doubt he was also carrying a pistol.

       "So what do you want from me?" Jess asked as she pocketed the card. "I'm guessing you're not looking to spend money on my hospital."

       He shrugged. "Don't be so quick to write off the possibility. I'm sure there are a lot of things I can get you that can't be got here." He took a pen and pad out of his jeans and pushed it across the table. "You should write me a list."

       Jess raised her eyebrows. She paused a second before writing some of the hospital's key deficiencies on the pad. "And what would you want in return?"

       "Not much: just an introduction."

       Jess stopped writing. "To who?"

       "I've heard rumors of a newly formed group, the Southern Freedom Fighters. I've also heard they're led by a former American soldier. I'd like you to arrange a meeting with this man."

       Jess finished the list and pushed the pad across the table.

       "I haven't heard of any Americans but I will make some enquiries."

       "I would be most obliged, Jess."

       "How will I contact you if can arrange the meeting?"

       "I'll be around tomorrow to drop off some of these things. Perhaps after that we could go and meet him together." He pocketed the notepad. "If you need me before then, my number is on the card."