PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (5 page)

       Jonjo lay in a patch of thick bush watching the Chinese security detail patrol the strip of earth that surrounded the facility. They were dressed in black fatigues and walked casually, their assault rifles slung. It was early morning, just after dawn. The air was still and the smell of fuel hung heavy in the air. He lay hidden in the undergrowth, his AK47 cradled in his arms, his sharp eyes watching every move.

       The four man security team stopped periodically to scan the landscape, searching for any sign of an intrusion. They moved along the same packed-earth trail, weapons hung casually over their shoulders. Jonjo shook his head slowly. These men had no place in the African bush. They walked straight over the tracks he had attempted to hide the night before; a good bushman would have seen the subtle disturbance and known something was amiss. Not these men. Jonjo had seen better bush skills from ten year olds.

       Despite his youth the Dinka warrior was a veteran of the civil war and an experienced bush scout. Five long years ago, at the age of twelve, a raiding party had snatched him from an orphanage and he had been destined for a short life of rape and abuse. It had been the Dinka who had ambushed the raiders and freed him. It was the chief who had taken an AK47 from a dead man and placed it in his hands.

       As the guards disappeared around the corner of the facility Jonjo relaxed and reached for his backpack. Inside were his supplies, food, water, radio and few spare magazines for the AK. He rummaged through it and pulled out a battered exercise book and a pencil. Flicking it open he turned the pages past where the doctor, Jess, was teaching him to read and write. At the back of the book he had drawn a map of the refinery. Despite a lack of education Jonjo was a talented artist, one of the reasons that Garang had given him this mission.

       The sketch map that Jonjo had drawn was detailed. It showed the perimeter fence with its fixed guard boxes and the heavily guarded front gate. He had measured the size of the facility, it was four hundred paces on each side.

       The previous night he had crept across the oil-stained clearing, sliding alongside one of the pipes that brought the crude oil from drill rigs in the south. Scrambling up the bank of earth topped with the wire fence, he had peered through a tiny tear in the thick black material to see what was inside. The bright lights had revealed a miniature city: machinery, towers covered in lights, rows of box-like buildings. Back in the safety of the bush he had marked the positions of the tanks and pipes, as well as the car park filled with trucks.

       Jonjo checked his sketch map again and identified a number of suitable locations to stage fighters, marking them on his sketch map with an X. The plan would be to ambush a petrol tanker as it came through the entrance; with any luck it could set fire to the whole base. Garang's instructions were clear; he wanted to attack the refinery, not the pipelines or drilling sites. He wanted a spectacular attack to draw more fighters and support to the newly formed South Freedom Fighters.

       The SFF scout left his hiding spot and worked his way back around the facility to the side overlooking the front gate. The dirt road snaked in between a set of heavy concrete blast walls covered by two guard towers. Heavily armed security personnel were posted to search every vehicle that entered.

       Jonjo slid forward on his stomach into the hide he had constructed the day before. He pushed cut branches forward for concealment as he watched the comings and goings of the refinery. He wanted to wait for an oil tanker in order to observe how the security detail reacted to the vehicle leaving the facility. Then he would head south, back into radio range with Garang and the rest of the SFF.

       The growl of vehicles alerted him to the approach of a convoy, not yet visible from his position. As the sound grew louder Jonjo could see that the guards at the checkpoint had retreated to their firing positions. The convoy drove into sight and he could see why. They were
technicals
, battered Toyota Hiluxs and Landcruisers with heavy machine guns bolted to their trays. The five trucks were filled with armed men. Even at this distance Jonjo could see the men were Arabs; there was no doubt: the dark skin, the head-scarves. He reached for his AK; they were Janjaweed.

       He watched the standoff at the gate. One of the Chinese mercenaries had come forward to confront the men. Jonjo waited for the shooting to start. The weapons on the technicals were pointed at the towers, the facility security forces ready with their own weapons. What were the Janjaweed thinking, Jonjo wondered. Were they raiding the refinery? Demanding protection money? Surely they weren't working together.

       With a wave the security guard confirmed Jonjo's worst fears. One by one the trucks snaked through the security checkpoint and into the facility. He watched the last of the convoy disappear and crawled back to where he had left his pack. He threw it over his shoulder and trotted off away from the refinery, back towards the border. If the Janjaweed were working with the Chinese, he needed to get into radio range and let Garang know as soon as possible.

Chapter 6

PETROCON Oil Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan

       Inside the confines of the refinery, in front of the demountable accommodation buildings, Yang had started his morning fitness regime. Dressed in black combat pants, boots and singlet, he worked through a number of warm-up exercises, testing his injured leg. A Somalian doctor had stitched the wound and he was lucky the blade had missed anything vital. Confident that he could carry the weakness, he started working a standing bag with punch and elbow combinations. His face was still swollen, another painful reminder of his failure on the 'Tian Hai'. As his body warmed he sped up the combinations, unleashing his rage on the spring loaded heavy bag. Unable to bear the weight of a roundhouse kick on his bad leg, he focused on low front kicks.

       "Sir." One of the refinery guards interrupted his routine.

       "What?" Yang snapped back in Mandarin.

       "The Arabs are here."

       Yang paused mid-combo and turned his head. "Really? I do not see them?"

       The guard spoke into his radio. "Let them in."

       Yang returned to his routine as the Janjaweed trucks pulled into the vehicle car park behind the gates. He completed another series of punches as the Arab raiders gathered in front of their trucks. There were more than forty men, all dark skinned and clad in various styles of desert and woodland camouflage.

       Yang finished his punches and stepped away from the bag wiping the sweat from his face and arms with a towel. He threw it onto a chair and walked across to the waiting men.

       "Who is in charge?" he asked in English.

       The Janjaweed stared at him with open animosity. Omar had told them to report to the Chinese operative, a notion that did not sit well with the fiercely independent warriors.

       There was silence as Yang met their gazes with his own. Then one of the men stepped forward.

       "You think you are a fighter, Chinaman?" The Janjaweed commander glanced at the standing bag. "Do you fuck pretend women as well?"

       A number of the men laughed, translating the joke into their dialect. In a few seconds the entire group was cackling.

       Yang did not react. He stood in silence, turned his head from side to side, scanning the rag tag group of fighters. He fixed his stare at the largest of the group. The Arab stood at least six foot nine, a full foot taller than the Chinese operative. Like Yang, he was lean and well muscled.

       The Janjaweed leader smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. "Ah, I think our friend prefers the boys, yes!" Once again his men translated the comment and started laughing.

       Yang raised his arm and pointed at the man. The Janjaweed boss nodded at the hulking Arab. The man grinned, shrugged off his ammunition belts and handed his machine gun to another man. He swaggered across the sand towards Yang.

       With a roar he lept forward, his arms wide to catch Yang in a death grip.

       The Chinese operative sidestepped, ducking under the Arab's arm. There was a loud slap and the bigger man roared like a wounded bull. He turned to face Yang and his comrades. His right cheek was glowing red, his eyes watering from the blow. Yang stood calmly, waiting for the next attack.

       The Janjaweed fighter was cautious now. He approached slowly, his fists in a defensive guard. Yang, hands forward, palms open, let him close. The Arab swung a punch and Yang caught it under his left arm, pivoted with the motion and slammed his boot into the side of the man's knee dislocating it.

       The Arab screamed and dropped his guard. Yang lifted his elbow and drove his body around, connecting with the side of the bigger man's head. The scream stopped as he collapsed in the sand, unconscious.

       Having finished his opponent, Yang dusted his hands and once again adopted a passive stance. He watched the surprised Janjaweed leader who was staring at the inert body of his fighter.

       "I like this man!" the Arab announced to his men as he stepped forward offering a hand to Yang.

       There was an awkward pause as Yang left him hanging. Then he stepped forward to grasp the Arab's hand.

       "My name is Yang and I am here to help you defeat our enemies."

       "I am Sagrib." The Janjaweed's mouth opened into a putrid smile. "And I like you even more." He laughed and slapped the Chinese operative on the shoulder.

       Yang led the men across to where a team of guards were fitting out eight tan four-wheel drives. The team was slotting Chinese built
QJZ-89 heavy machine guns
into the turret mounts and lighter PKM machine guns to the front pintle mounts. Other men were loading weapons and boxes of ammunition into the back of the trucks.

       "The vehicles are yours. My men will provide ammunition, fuel and repairs as you need them," said Yang.

       Sagrib translated for his men. They looked at each other in disbelief then rushed forward to inspect the modern equipment. Compared to the relics they usually fought with, the Chinese equipment was state-of-the-art.

       "And what do you want from me?" Sagrib asked, eyeing the Chinese agent suspiciously. "I work for Omar, not Chinamen."

       Yang placed a satellite phone in the Janjaweed leader's hand. "I am here to help you destroy Sudan's enemies and reclaim her wealth." He took a map from his thigh pocket and unfolded it. He had circled the villages that he wanted the Janjaweed to raid. "These villages are where we need to attack first. If we push the Dinka off the land, then Sudan can claim it and drill for more oil."

       Sagrib inspected the map. With his new vehicles and heavy weapons he could hit them hard and withdraw before any of the South Sudanese Army units or the UN could respond. He smiled at the thought of how many of the black Christians his men would kill.

       "I will give you regular intelligence updates," said Yang.

       "You have people in the South?" asked Sagrib.

       "We have people everywhere."

Chapter 7

Kaljak Village, Abyei District

       Technically the village of Kaljak was located in South Sudan. In reality it resided in the contested Abyei District, an area claimed by both Sudan and the newly formed South Sudan. During a UN referendum in 2011 the population had voted overwhelmingly in favor of splitting from Sudan. However democracy meant little to the powerful men in Khartoum. They simply wanted the oil.

       The town, if it could be called that, was a handful of single storey, mud-and-thatch-roofed dwellings constructed around an open marketplace. Normally filled with traders and their goods, it lay almost empty, abandoned in the face of war.

       To one side of the dusty square stood a medical clinic constructed with international aid. It was the only medical post for forty miles. Manned by a team of Western volunteers, it was a basic, single storey building with a large water tank. Its modern-day wood and plastic sheet construction contrasted with the mud-brick huts clustered around it.

       "You don't understand. They will come and they will kill everyone!" Garang was arguing with the missionaries who ran the clinic. The evangelists refused to abandon the village despite the dire warning that Garang and his men had brought.

       The leader of the small group was a stern American woman. She reminded Garang of his junior high librarian. "God did not abandon us in our time of need. We will not abandon these people."

       "God has nothing to do with this and the villagers are already leaving." The SFF leader was getting increasingly agitated by her stubbornness. "The Janjaweed will not care what god you pray to. You will die here."

       The old woman jutted out her chin. "I would not expect you to understand. You are not a believer."

       "For God's sake, woman, die here if you want. But don't force these women to die with you." The other members of the missionary team were a pair of idealistic American college students.

       "God will not forsake us, young man. We will negotiate with these men."

       Garang threw his arms in the air and stormed away. "These people are brainwashed. Jess, you talk to them." The doctor was overseeing Garang's men loading the village's elderly into a battered old pickup.

       "I'll try." She walked over to the missionaries.

       Garang had brought six armed men, a former military
UNIMOG
truck and a four-wheel drive to the village. It was all he could scrounge up on short notice. Jonjo's radio transmission revealed the Janjaweed at the oil refinery had reached them the day before. By the time they had picked up the teenage soldier the Janjaweed were already on their way to Kaljak.