PRIMAL Vengeance (3)

A war for resources is raging in Southern Sudan. Tribal warriors, Janjaweed raiders and foreign mercenaries struggle for power over the oil-rich lands. Corporate greed fuels the conflict as oil companies scramble to secure vital resources. In the name of profit, villages burn, children starve and refugees are slaughtered. 

       When PRIMAL operatives interdict an arms shipment bound for Khartoum they find themselves snared in a battle to save a fledgling nation. Bishop and Mirza wage a guerilla campaign challenging Chinese influence in the region. The response is brutal and the PRIMAL team find themselves pitched against a capable and well-resourced adversary. The conflict drags them from Sudan to Shanghai, then back to Abu Dhabi before vengeance is finally realized.

About the author

Jack Silkstone is a writer with a background in Military Intelligence, Counter-Intelligence and Special Operations.

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Endorsements

"If you like Tom Clancy, you'll like PRIMAL. It bristles with authenticity because the guy who wrote it used to do it for real." - Matthew Reilly, author of ICE STATION, SCARECROW and THE FIVE GREATEST WARRIORS

Acknowledgements

PRIMAL Vengeance is dedicated to the Intelligence Analysts, 2s, Deltas, 18Foxes, Three Letter Agency LOs, Bears, Spies, and others who work endless hours to ensure that operators are at the right place at the right time. You are appreciated.

PRIMAL Vengeance

By Jack Silkstone

Copyright 2012 Jack Silkstone. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Warning: this story is intended for mature audiences and contains violence and profanity.

Prologue

Extract from 'In 2 Sudans, Familiarity with Path to War'

By JOSH KRON

Published: May 10, 2012,
New York Times

South Sudan's years of conflict were meant to be over when it won its independence from Sudan last July after generations of fighting with the people of the north. But the jubilation quickly faded, and now, not even a year later, after weeks of pointed barbs and border skirmishes, this vast and vastly underdeveloped country is once again mobilizing for war — and asking some of the poorest people on earth to pay for it, with whatever they have at hand.

Sudan and South Sudan have yet to resolve a number of prickly and vital issues, not least of which is how to demarcate a border of more than 1,000 miles and share billions of dollars of oil revenue. Border clashes escalated in late March, killing hundreds, and strategic oil fields have switched hands...

..."When we took arms against Khartoum, there was no salary, there was no food, there was no water," said Gabriel Bol Duth..."We fought them because we wanted freedom."

Chapter 1

Map of the Republic of Sudan and the new nation of South Sudan

Khartoum, Sudan, 2012

       Garang's hands were sweating, despite the cool air that flowed from the air-conditioning vent behind his head. He was more at home in the African bush than here in the boardroom of a major petroleum corporation. Not to mention that the PETROCON building was situated in downtown Khartoum; the heart of enemy territory and a thousand miles from his adopted home in South Sudan. It had been years since the civil war between Sudan and South Sudan had officially ended, but deep wounds heal slowly.

       Garang's job now was to keep his tribal chief safe, and surrounded by hostile Sudanese forces, it was no wonder his palms were sweating. He wiped them against his olive drab combat fatigues and returned his attention to the two men at the negotiating table.

       "This is a good deal; we both know it. You would be a fool not to agree," the Sudanese Oil Minister addressed the chief sitting opposite him. Garang had noticed that every time the man finished a sentence he licked his lips, almost as if he could taste the crude oil he coveted so desperately.

       The chief leaned forward and pushed a pile of legal documents back towards the fat politician. "You want my people to sign their lands across to your Chinese masters for only four percent? We are not simpletons that can be swayed with a handful of beads, Omar. We are a proud people. The Dinka lands belong to the Dinka and that is final."

       Omar slapped his thick hands against the table, upsetting a glass of water and spilling its contents across the table's surface. "You are a fool! You either take this deal or we take the lands from you."

       "Your threats are idle," the chief replied calmly. "You couldn't take our lands in two decades of civil war and—"

       The politician slammed his hands against the table again. "Look around you, old man." He gestured towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the bustling city. From thirty-six floors up people looked like ants. "You're a long way from your grass huts. Times have changed and your shitty little tribe has been left behind. Now I have the power. I have the money. This is a new era and your people will not survive unless they submit. Sign the papers and I promise, you will spend your final years a wealthy man."

       He paused, squinting across at Garang. "What about you, boy? Do you want your people to live in squalor or do you want to be a part of this?"

       Garang swallowed, wiping his hands against his pants as he rallied the courage to speak. Before he opened his mouth his chief spoke for him. "There is no Dinka who will sign your worthless papers, Omar." The elder was dressed like Garang, olive fatigues tucked into battered combat boots. He was lean, dark skin drawn and leathery, a veteran African warrior. "We will fight to the last man to keep our lands."

       Omar remained seated. "Yes, you'll get your fight soon enough. Before too long I will have more tanks and artillery to pound your pathetic tribe into the dust." He pushed his own chair back and pried himself from its clutches. "Your women will spend their final days being stuffed with
Janjaweed
cocks."

       At the mention of the fearsome Arab militias the doors at the end of the conference room opened and a fourth man entered. He crossed the room to stand behind the Sudanese politician.

       "You probably already know of Sagrib," Omar said.

       At the mention of his name the man's lips peeled back to reveal a mouth almost devoid of teeth. Then he laughed, a revolting cackling sound not unlike the bark of a hyena.

       The Dinkas knew the man only by reputation. The leader of Omar's private Janjaweed army was renowned for his brutal acts of violence. He was dressed in desert combat fatigues and had cloth wrapped around his head, the tan material draped over his shoulder. A gold Rolex adorned his wrist, hacked from the arm of one of his countless victims.

       The Dinka chief ignored Sagrib and looked the Oil Minister squarely in the eye. "Your Chinese masters can give you all the weapons they want, Omar. Your forces will never defeat the Dinka while you continue to send pigs to fight us."

       Sagrib turned his head slightly, angling his mirrored Ray-Bans towards the chief. Garang kept his mouth shut. He was starting to regret volunteering to protect the old man.

       It was Omar who broke the silence. "You and your people are all alone. No UN, no Americans, no helicopters, and no tanks. I will ask one last time, sign the papers and your people will have a chance to live." He waddled across to a side table, retrieved a manila envelope and threw it on the table.

       "What about you, boy? I hear you were born in America. I'm sure you understand the value of this contract." He leaned across the table. "Get the old man to sign it and I will make you rich."

       Garang paused for a second, his eyes drawn to the envelope.

       The elder Dinka pulled him back. "This meeting is over." The chief's voice had a slight tremor. "Garang, we are leaving."

       "You're making a very big mistake, gentlemen," Omar said as the pair retreated to the boardroom doors and into the path of a heavily armed security detail.

       Garang spun on his heel. "What is this?" he yelled, pointing his finger at Omar. "You promised us safe passage!"

       Omar shook his head. "You are too trusting, but you will learn. This will be an important lesson for you." He turned to Sagrib. "Kill the old man and make an example out of the boy."

       The Janjaweed mercenary nodded, snapping an order at the guards, "Take them to the basement!"

       It took only minutes for the guards to cuff the two men and move them into the elevator to the lower levels of the building. There, amongst the PETROCON vans, they forced the Dinka tribal leader to his knees.

       Garang struggled against the guards who held him. One of them drove a baton into his stomach, doubling him over. His legs turned to jelly as he gasped for air but he was held up, forced to watch.

       Sagrib stood over the Dinka chief, a rusty bush saw in one hand. With the other he grabbed a fistful of hair, wrenching the man's head back.

       The old man looked up at the mercenary with hate in his eyes. "You can kill me, but you cannot kill all of us. Mark my words. Dinka warriors will bury you in the carcass of a pig."

       "No, they will die like you. Like fucking lambs to slaughter." Sagrib brought the saw up against the man's throat and hacked it back and forth. The rusty blade chewed deep into the flesh and the chief gasped involuntary as the jagged teeth tore through his jugular and windpipe. Crimson blood spewed out of the horrific wound as Sagrib sawed through the spine, laughing like a mad man as the tribal elder gurgled.

       Garang screamed and thrashed against the men holding him. The baton returned, smashing his legs out from under him. The guards beat him savagely while Sagrib continued to hack at the once-proud elder's head.

       The old man died without so much as a whimper. The last thing Garang saw before he succumbed to unconsciousness was Sagrib holding the severed head aloft, his uniform drenched in blood, toothless mouth grinning.

***

       They found Garang on the outskirts of Khartoum, badly beaten and dumped in a pile of trash. Next to him was the chief's head, the body missing. Garang screamed in pain as they loaded him into the truck. None of them wanted to touch the severed head of their chief. Eventually it was a young warrior named Jonjo who rallied the courage to take the head and wrap it in a sheet. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he placed it in the passenger seat of the truck.

       They drove south, trying to avoid the potholes in the old highway, as every jolt caused Garang to moan in pain. Jonjo was not sure the American would survive the long journey. He was not sure if any of them would make it home. If Omar had rescinded their safe passage and the Sudanese Army found them, they would all be dead.

Chapter 2