African Dragon (17 page)

40.

Near Kinshasa

n two hours, Cascaes and his crew travelled the distance it would have taken the train an entire day to cover. Assuming the train ever arrived at the station to pick them u
p, which still hadn’t happened.
The pilot yelled back to Hodges, sitting behind him, that they would be at Kinshasa airport in twenty minutes.

Cascaes handed up a piece of paper with map coordinates and two hundred dollars Canadian. “Ask him if he can drop us off here instead. It’s closer to where our meeting is.”

The pilot looked at the coordinates and adjusted the GPS computer on his dashboard. “There isn’t much out there. Are you sure?” he asked. No one responded so he just shrugged and banked hard to the right as he adjusted for their new heading. They touched down on a grassy savannah in the middle of nowhere. The pilot again asked if Cascaes was sure about the location—they were several miles from the outskirts of Kinshasa, and it would be dark soon. They assured him they would be fine, thanked him for the ride, and told him they would call him again one day soon.

As soon as the plane took off, the four of them stripped from their civilian clothes into camos. Hodges and Jones tried their best to be inconspicuous as they watched Julia get changed, her beauty much more evident in a bra and panties. Cascaes cleared his throat when he saw them gawking, and they quickly pulled on their clothes.

“Looks like about an hour walk due west to get to Zabanga’s house. If we get lucky and he’s there, we’ll try and take him out from a distance and just disappear. If you can’t get a shot at him, then we’ll figure out a way into his place, but I have no idea what kind of security or surveillance he has. We’ll just take this nice and slow and sort it out when we get there.” With that, they began the long walk to find the traitor’s hideout.

Seven hundred miles to the east, Shin Xun-jun’s column of troops rumbled through the Congolese highlands, like an African serpent winding its way to its prey. Major Wu had the plans of the prime minister’s residence, and would be leading that assault, although now perhaps without Sergeant Major Han. He hated relying on the poorly trained PAC guerrillas, but the decision wasn’t his. In another truck, Nigel Ufume reviewed the maps of the city and planned on how they would use a small team to infiltrate the president’s compound while the remainder of the troops waited for the signal to begin the major assault that would bring the ruling government to its knees.

They would drive all night, stopping only to refuel, and rendezvous with the twenty-five hundred other PAC guerrillas that had been formed further west. Many of these men were mercenaries, trained during the last Congo War, and very content to kill anyone so long as they were paid and fed. The relative peace of the past few years had many of them desperate to keep food on their tables. The Chinese paid well, kept them fed, and offered shelter in the camp they had built. Although a much smaller camp than the one Shen Xun-jun ran to the east, these men made up in skill what they lacked in numbers. The general who ran that “aid station,” a man named Wong Fu-jia, was almost as fanatical as the guerrillas in that camp. While Shen Xun-jun didn’t know him personally, he had seen his file, and was pleased to have him and his men joining them outside Kinshasa.

41.

The Fish Farm

It was almost eighteen hundred hours when Mackey’s handheld computer blinked to alert him that one of the sensors on the perimeter had been tripped. He and his men had scattered around the farm’s perimeter to watch for any movement. When his computer flashed, his adrenaline immediately started pumping. He whispered into his throat mic to his men.

“Be advised, sensors indicate movement to the north, eight hundred yards. I want everyone to get to Fish Central and prepare the boat. Prepare to be assaulted.”

Mackey and the rest of his crew sprinted through the jungle back into the camp and ran down to the dock. It was getting dark, particularly out on the lake. Everyone piled into the boat, which had been stockpiled with most of their gear, and Mackey took the helm and started the engine. Smitty and Ernie P. had opted to stay behind with SCUBA equipment. They would control the detonations from the water’s edge where they could see better, and then slip into the water and get out to the boat.

Mackey, Jon, and Pete headed out into the lake as fast as they could, knowing they would only have a limited amount of time before they had to kill the engines and hope they wouldn’t be seen out on the water. Smitty and Ernie P. hid beneath the old wooden pier and watched the village, waiting for the approaching vehicles to enter their extremely large kill zone. They had been methodical in their planning, and true to their nature, anxiously awaited the fruits of their labor.

Mackey called to Ernie and Smitty, speaking quietly into their ear pieces. “Multiple sensors lighting up at three hundred yards, they must have dismounted. Out.”

Smitty smiled and picked up his night vision binoculars, scanning the woods outside their small compound. He could see headlights in the distance.

“Got ’em. Looks like they are fanning out in the woods. We’ll be ready.”

Ernie opened a small computer screen and entered some codes to arm their explosives. His touchscreen monitor showed all of the sensors, lighting up one and two at a time as the enemy approached through the woods.

“Ooh, they’re so sneaky,” said Ernie sarcastically as he watched them getting closer on his monitor.

Ernie and Smitty allowed the guerrillas to get to edge of the camp unchallenged. Once there, he could see a Chinese officer directing squads into different parts of the village. Evidently, they planned on assaulting all of the buildings simultaneously, which would be perfect for their daisy chain. It seemed to take forever for the guerrillas to get into position. As they squatted outside the buildings preparing to enter, Smitty quietly said, “
Now
.”

Ernie touched his screen and set off multiple claymores that had been set in the woods facing both in and out. With a deafening roar, tens of thousands of ball bearings were sent through the woods and open center of the camp. The majority of the guerrillas disappeared in a cloud of human flesh. The screaming was as loud as the explosions, which were pretty damn loud. Those soldiers furthest from the forest edge assaulted the buildings to get out of the ambush, not realizing they were entering kill zone number two. The doors had been rigged, and as each cabin was entered, explosions rippled through the camp. With the woods exploding and the buildings blowing up, the only safe place to run was towards the river—towards fish central where Smitty and Ernie sat saving the best for last.

Ernie turned to Smitty and said, “This is it!” as he touched the final trigger and covered his ears, opened his mouth, and crossed his ankles. Smitty did the same thing, trying to protect his eardrums and family jewels from the huge concussion as their homemade explosions took apart the entire camp. Shrapnel, chains, ball bearings, nails, and whatever other scraps they had packed into the huge tubs of C4 screamed through the camp, slaughtering whoever was left, including Sergeant Major Han. It took a full minute for all of the pieces to float back down to earth. Smitty and Ernie slipped into the water and put on their BCDs and SCUBA masks, disappearing into the dark water of the lake before the last remnants of the invading army had even settled back down to earth.

In less than a minute, Sergeant Major Han’s entire patrol and the fish farm had simply ceased to exist.

42.

Residential compound of Lucian Zabanga

Hodges and Jones had set up their sniper position on a small hill a few hundred yards from the electrified fence around Zabanga’s large villa. Large bull mastiffs trotted along the inside of the fence looking as menacing as anything that might come out of the jungle. Chris and Julia had taken a position on the other side of the
compound
in the woods. With their high-powered binoculars and spotter-scopes, the two groups hunkered down and watched, waiting for a sign that Lucien Zabanga was actually there.

Inside his study, Zabanga sat at his desk smoking a very expensive cigar, trying to reach Shen Xun-jun. The phone at the aid station went unanswered, and now he was calling a cell phone number that was for “emergencies only.” Zabanga’s nerves constituted an emergency—he was getting panicky. He was relieved when General Shen answered the phone gruffly in French.

“It’s the tiger. Is this the Lion Hunter?” asked Zabanga.

“This is the Lion Hunter,” said Shin Xun-jun. “The hunt has begun. The lion and leopard will be skinned by tomorrow night.”

“The sooner the better. We had a visitor near the Lion’s Den. We had hoped to question him, but he’s dead. He must have friends nearby. I’m worried they know about the hunt.”

Shin smiled as they bounced along the dirt road in the dark. “There is nothing to fear. Another smaller hunting party is taking care of that problem as we speak. I expect to hear from them almost any time now. You’re in a safe location?”

“Yes. I’m out of the city. Call me when you’re close.”

Zabanga hung up the cell phone and poured a glass of twenty-year-old rum. As he puffed on his cigar, he wondered if he should have been more insistent on being named president instead of prime minister. Why should this man Mboto Kangani be allowed to run the country? While there would be plenty of money and power as the number two man, why settle for being number two? He decided the new president’s career wouldn’t be a long one. As soon as things calmed down, the new president would have an accident, and the prime minister would take control of the entire government. He smiled as he contemplated living in the presidential residence.

Lucian stood up and stretched, then walked out to the large open den outside his office. Three of his bodyguards sat by the fireplace drinking beer. They stood up when he entered.

“Tell Duma I’m hungry. Have him bring my supper to the back porch. There’s a nice breeze this evening.”

One of his men walked off to find Duma, the chef, while the other two men walked with Lucien to the rear porch. They lit the torches outside and walked the large rear yard of the compound, where the giant dogs trotted loyally alongside them. Lucien sat at the large table by himself, smoking his cigar and sipping his rum. It was a beautiful night, indeed. By tomorrow at this time, he would be on his way to becoming one of the richest men in Africa.

“Skipper,” whispered Hodges. “You seeing this?”

Cascaes was smiling from the other side of the compound. “Affirmative. Was just getting ready to call you. That’s the target. Confirmed. You’re cleared to fire as soon as you have the shot. Move to rendezvous point as soon as the target is eliminated.”

“What about his guards?” asked Hodges.

“You’re cleared to take out any hostiles. And do
not
allow them to release those dogs,” said Cascaes.

Jones began quietly giving Hodges the range, wind direction and speed, and Jones adjusted his scope. Lucien’s head was as clear as a close-up photo in the night vision scope. The man was actually smiling.

“This is for Cory, motherfucker,”
Hodges whispered as he slowly squeezed the trigger. His silenced sniper rifle made a quiet crack, and a little less than a second later, Lucien Zabanga’s head exploded all over his table. He sat there, face down in his own blood and brains for almost ten minutes. Duma, the chef, walked out with a tray of food, at first thinking Zabanga was sleeping at the table after drinking his share of rum—it wouldn’t be the first time. When he saw the blood and brains all over the wall and table, he dropped the tray and began screaming.

The screaming brought barking dogs and running guards. As the guards ran to keep up with the dogs, Hodges tried his best to lead the fast animals correctly. He squeezed off a round, and although he missed the dog at which he was aiming, he hit the one behind it.

“God damn, those things are fast,” he whispered to Jones.

“Two more dogs in the yard, four guards I can see,” said Jones quietly. “Five hundred yards, wind speed is steady at is one knot, southeast.”

Hodges adjusted and fired, dropping another dog. He chambered another round as Zabanga’s guards hit the deck and began spraying random fire at the perimeter fence. They had no idea where the shots were coming from, and were panicking as they watched the last dog drop before it could be released at their attackers, dead before it hit the ground. Cascaes and Julia began firing short bursts from behind them, moving every few seconds. To the guards inside the compound, they appeared to be surrounded and under attack from a large force. The guards tried to get back inside the house but were hit with deadly accurate sniper fire. As soon as everything went quiet, Cascaes, Julia, Hodges and Jones packed up and began sprinting to their rendezvous point west of Zabanga’s villa.

Shen Xun-jun was getting anxious. There was still no word from Sergeant Major Han, and they should have made contact hours ago. He tried calling him on his radio and got no answer. He cursed under his breath as they plodded west. Where the hell was Sergeant Major Han?

He had no way to know a wild dog was trotting around with a piece of Sergeant Major Han in his mouth.

43.

On the Move

Moose, Ripper, Theresa, Lance, and Jake hustled through the tall grasslands and woods to get away from the PAC camp as quickly as possible. They had been extremely careful about covering their tracks and left no evidence of their visit. The patrols
had driven
past their stakeout location without even slowing down—they were safe for the moment.
They
headed back towards the fish farm on a course parallel to the path they normally used, but which was now being used by
that
convoy of six trucks loaded with fifty PAC guerrillas and two Chinese officers, including Sergeant Major Han.

The five of them moved single file quickly along the narrow path, they were at a brisk jog, but they had a long distance to cover by foot, so they paced themselves. After an hour of double-timing it, they took a break for water and rest. Moose called back to Mackey on his radio—the Chinese patrol could have arrived by now.

“Skipper, it’s Moose, you copy? You guys okay over there?”

“Moose, its Mac. Take a deep breath and relax. The enemy has been destroyed, over.”

“
Destroyed
? It’s all over?” Moose was stunned. The enemy patrol had outnumbered Mackey and his men by ten to one.

“Roger that. Thanks to our sneaky little bastards here in camp, it was all over before it started. They never got a shot off. We’re reassembling and awaiting your return. We’ll regroup and move out as fast as possible. Just return to base, ASAP! Out!”

Moose updated the group, who were as shocked as he was to learn that the firefight they were so worried about was already over. Smitty and Ernie P had evidently been very successful with their daisy chains and ambush. Even with the threat gone, there was no slowing down. Kinshasa was almost eight hundred miles to the west, and the PAC army had a large head start. They would need some serious luck to beat them to the capital.