PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (6 page)

      
The news had been shocking; the
nomadic Arab tribes
had never worked with the Chinese before. Their raids were usually focused out west around Darfur.

       The SFF had moved fast but still they were running out of time. As they reached Kaljak, Janjaweed warriors had already raided a number of the nearby settlements. The streams of refugees brought stories of horror: entire families massacred, woman raped, markets pillaged, cattle butchered, homes burned. The Arab killers were leaving nothing in their wake. Their masters in Khartoum wanted the villagers forced off the lands so they could claim the territory. The Janjaweed were just happy to be slaughtering infidels.

       Garang watched the villagers fleeing. Women, children and the elderly, hampered by the few things they could carry, walked as fast as they could. A couple of rusted vehicles also departed, crammed full of people and the last of the livestock. Most of the cattle had already been driven south by the able-bodied men. Everyone was heading deep into South Sudan, away from the violence and towards the UN refugee camps.

       Garang slammed his fist down on the bonnet of his old Hilux four-wheel drive. If only he had more men and more weapons. He could make a stand against the Janjaweed, drive them from the oil fields and bring riches to the country. He shook his head in disbelief as a white UN Landcruiser overtook the stragglers, leaving them in its dust. No doubt the observers would report the incident, then in a week or so a patrol of poorly equipped Nigerians would come out to survey what was left of the village. He spat in the dust as he watched the four-wheel drive disappear down the dirt track.

       The radio attached to his belt squelched twice.  It would be Jonjo reporting in. The young warrior was watching the approaches to the village.

       "Garang, Garang!"

       "Jonjo, report."

       "The Janjaweed are closing in. We have ten minutes at the most."

       The SFF leader looked back to where he had left Jess negotiating with the missionaries. She had given up and was now photographing with her camera; more evidence of the atrocities, as she called it. His men had finished loading the weak and wounded into the UNIMOG truck and were now focused on stopping desperate refugees from climbing onto the vehicle.

       "OK, pull back, Jonjo.

       "Yes, Garang. I'm coming."

       He dropped the radio back onto his belt, unslung his AK and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mount up. We're leaving!"

       Two of his men climbed into the back of the UNIMOG and lifted the tailgate. The driver turned the truck engine over as Jess climbed up into the cab. The other three men were in the Hilux.

       Garang strode over to the missionaries who were standing out in front of the medical clinic. "Last chance, women. We are leaving."

       The old lady stood firm. "We're staying."

       "May God be with you then." Garang strode back to the truck. The driver was struggling to get it started.

       In the distance a heavy machine gun thudded followed by the crackle of small arms. The gunfire panicked the remaining villagers and they started running into the bush, looking to hide. The elderly missionary bundled the younger women into the clinic and shut the door.

       "Get that damn truck started!" ordered Garang as he jumped into the front seat of the Hilux.

       More gunfire sounded in the distance, coming from local villagers trying to protect their homes. They would die in vain, ruthlessly gunned down by the raiders.

       "The truck is broken," Jess yelled from the front seat. "It won't start."

       Another volley of heavy machine-gun fire echoed through the marketplace.

       Garang leapt from the Hilux, yelling at his driver, "Get in front of the truck and tow start it!"

       The SFF man skidded the Hilux in front of the UNIMOG and jumped out hooking chains to the bull bar of the truck.

       "Hurry the hell up!" screamed the SFF commander.

       "Garang!" Jonjo yelled from the other side of the village. He was running, his AK47 held at the ready. "Why is the truck still here?"

       "Because it's broken," snapped Garang.

       Jonjo grabbed a worn PKM machine gun from the SFF pickup. Looping a belt of ammunition over his shoulder, he ran to the medical clinic. It was the tallest building in the village and a ladder led up the adjacent water tank. He scrambled up to get a better view.

       The gunfire from the edge of the village had stopped but the rumbling of approaching vehicles could be heard. The local villagers had put up a poor showing. Jonjo lay at the roof's edge, adjusting the PKM, sighting the weapon on the Janjaweed convoy he could see in the distance.

       "We've got inbound, four vehicles," Jonjo yelled.

       "Slow them down!" Garang screamed from the Hilux.

       Jonjo opened fire with a short burst from the PKM. The vehicles were still well out of effective range for the weapon and the rounds smacked into the dust, short of his intended target. The young soldier adjusted his point of aim, as Garang had taught him, and pumped out another volley.

       Twelve hundred meters up the track the rounds slammed into the lead vehicle in the Janjaweed convoy. The driver reacted quickly, bouncing the truck off the road and into the bush. The other vehicles followed, bashing through the trees. The gunners in the weapon turrets unleashed their machine guns, blasting away at the village.

       Jonjo ducked instinctively as bullets snapped through the air. The rooftop offered good fields of view but no protection. He let off another burst into the trees where the vehicles had driven. Inaccurate return fire peppered the village and the market place.

       "Garang, we need to go now!"

       "God damn it I know, Jonjo!"

       The Hilux struggled to pull the UNIMOG, its worn engine screaming. Slowly the truck inched forward, gaining momentum. As it gathered speed the driver dropped the clutch, there was a lurch and a cough of smoke and the old diesel spluttered to life. Both vehicles halted, their engines running, and a SFF fighter unlatched the Hilux from the truck.

       Back on the building Jonjo watched the location of the Janjaweed vehicles, partially concealed amongst the trees. His sharp eyes registered a flash and he caught a glimpse of a small black dot heading skyward.

       "MORTARS!" the young soldier screamed as he leapt from the rooftop.

The bombs slammed into the marketplace, screams filling the air as flying shrapnel inflicted horrendous wounds on a family of refugees. A woman thrashed in the dirt, both of her legs blown off. Another round detonated on top of her finishing her misery, spraying her body across the dirt.

       The UNIMOG truck roared as it leapt forward, black smoke pouring from its exhaust. The driver didn't need prompting. He swerved around the Hilux and took off down the track that ran south.

       "GO, GO, GO!" screamed Garang as more rounds slammed into the village. The roof of the medical clinic exploded in a cloud of splinters and dust, the water tank collapsing, sending a wave out over the packed earth of the marketplace.

       The SFF driver waited a second, watching his side mirror. Jonjo burst through the dust and smoke. Waiting hands hauled him over the tailgate and the driver gunned the engine. The four-wheel drive's tires spun in the dirt as they lurched forward escaping the maelstrom of violence.

       The two heavily laden SFF vehicles sped clear of the village, refugees running with outstretched arms as they tried to catch them.

       Jonjo's knuckles were white as he clutched the tailgate of the Hilux. Tears of rage streamed down his face as he watched another village burn.

       In the front of the pickup Garang pounded his fists against the dashboard. Jeeps, heavy machine guns and now mortars. The Janjaweed had it all! He slammed his fist again. What did he have to fight back with? AKs, old men and boy soldiers!

Chapter 8

Kaljak Vilage, Abyei District

       Sagrib lifted his pistol and shot the old man through the face. The body remained upright on its knees for a moment before it collapsed into the dust. The infidel had served his purpose. Now Sagrib knew why the village was almost empty. He knew why there were no cattle and he knew who had fired at them, killing one of his men.

       The Dinka men had warned the villagers. A group led by the American no less. This was interesting news for Sagrib. The battered body his men had dumped outside Khartoum hardly seemed like a threat at the time. According to the old man, Sagrib had only just missed the foreigner and his band of would-be warriors. He hoped they would meet again soon.

       The tall Arab surveyed the small group of prisoners his men had captured. Half a dozen old men and a few women was hardly the bounty he had promised them. Still the three American women would go a long way to easing their disappointment. The two young ones and the old lady were squatting in the dirt with the rest of the prisoners. Their capture had been the only highlight of an attack that had cost him the life of one of his men.

       A single burst of fire from a machine gun had hit his lead vehicle, shattered the windscreen and almost decapitated the man in the front seat. It was the first casualty they had taken since commencing the raids. The first real resistance they had experienced. Still, the new Chinese weapons had quickly turned the battle in his favor. The mortars had proven themselves to be most useful.

       "Bring her!" Sagrib pointed to the old woman. She had already attempted to sully his ears with all manner of infidel words.

       He strode towards one of the village huts. The mud walls were scarred with bullet holes but otherwise intact. Two of his men dragged the woman behind him.

       The protests of the two younger women stopped Sagrib in his tracks. He turned back to his men guarding the prisoners. "Those two are yours; share them with the others."

       His men eagerly dragged the white women from the group. An elderly Dinka rose to protect them and was clubbed to the ground with the buttstock of a rifle. Sagrib grinned as he turned back to the clinic. The bitches had no idea what was in store for them, he thought.

       As his men dragged the old woman Sagrib stopped to take a bag from the back of his open-topped jeep. In front of a hut he unclipped the bag and emptied the contents on the ground. He ordered his men to pin the woman against the mud-brick wall.

       "Nothing you can do will scare me!" There was a look of defiance in her eyes. "The Lord is with me."

       Sagrib picked up a hammer and a metal peg from the ground, one of three used to secure a long range radio mast. "Oh, he will be soon." He held up one of the sinister looking spikes. "They crucified your prophet, didn't they?"

       The old woman gasped, her eyes wide with fear. She struggled against the guards but they held her firm, pinning her arms to the wall as they lifted her up.

       Sagrib brought his face close to hers, his lips peeled back in a hideous leer. "You should have stayed in your own country, witch!"

       "No, no, you wouldn't!" She shook her head in disbelief as he placed the spike on the back of her hand. He paused, savoring her fear, then smashed the spike with the hammer. The thin shaft of metal punctured her flesh, bones and tendons with a sickening crunch. She screamed in pain as he bashed the peg home, driving it into the mud wall. She continued to scream as he repeated the treatment on her other hand.

       The Arab stepped back to survey his handiwork. The old woman was now suspended by the spikes in her hands, crucified. She whimpered and gasped for air as her feet scrabbled against the dry mud wall.

       "Look how close you are to your God now, infidel." He spat on the woman's face.

       The old lady looked at him with sad eyes. "I forgive you, my son," she whispered before the pain overwhelmed her and she passed out.

       Sagrib stared at the woman in disbelief. He was no stranger to killing innocents but the women's deathly calm disturbed him. Usually they begged for their lives, right up until their last breath.

       "Get the vehicles ready. We're leaving," Sagrib ordered one of his men as he turned his back on the woman. She would take hours to die. Suitable punishment for bringing her lies to his country, he thought.

       He checked his Rolex. They had been in the village for a little over an hour. It was time to move. There was an ever so slight chance that the SPLA or the UN would send a patrol. So far they had seen neither the South Sudanese Army nor the peacekeepers but Omar had warned him that he was to avoid conflict with any offical security forces.

       The shrill scream of one of the American girls pierced the air. Sagrib smiled. His men were enjoying themselves. No need to interrupt them just yet. He reached into his four-wheel drive and pulled out the satellite phone Yang had given him. The Chinese operative would want to know about the American and his men. Perhaps he would have some intelligence on their home base.

Chapter 9

Lascar Island, South West Pacific

       Saneh's heart was pounding in her ears as she crested the ridgeline. She paused for a second to savor the cool ocean breeze that penetrated the thick jungle. In the valleys the humidity and heat were oppressive. Her clothing and equipment were drenched in sweat.

       The former Iranian intelligence officer wore a lightweight belt rig. It contained four magazines for her Beretta
ARX160
assault rifle, a water bottle and a pair of fragmentation grenades. She rarely wore the heavy chest rigs that the male operatives wore. Not only was she unlikely to be directly assaulting enemy objectives, but also the ballistic plates weren't designed to fit an ample chest. She preferred the comfort of a lightweight shirt. Her dark tan cargo pants were covered in mud, boots drenched from the dozen creeks she'd traversed.