PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (9 page)

       "Hold your men here. If anyone tries to penetrate the wire, kill them. Do not attempt to reinforce the towers until I give word on the radio. Is this clear?"

       The guard captain nodded.

       A fire truck rushed forward to attempt to extinguish the flames. Yang waved it back. He would let the tanker burn. The fire would not spread and it stopped any assault from entering the compound. The enemy would eventually run low on ammunition and be forced to withdraw.

       The thump of a grenade drew his attention to one corner of the compound. The tower was under attack, the guards killed or injured. As he watched, another grenade sailed over the wall and detonated, fragging a number of the Chinese jeeps. Then another sailed over the fence, and another, a stream of grenades arcing over the wall exploding among vehicles and accommodation buildings. One of them rolled into an ammunition pit dug for the Janjaweed stocks of mortar bombs. Yang hit the sand as it detonated. A huge explosion flipped one of the jeeps into the air and the blastwave washed over him.

       The Chinese operative clenched his fists as he watched the burning debris land on an accommodation building, setting it alight. His radio squelched. "Yang, this is Slayer. We are ready for take-off."

       Yang got up and ran towards the helipad in the center of the plant. The battle was about to take a turn in his favor.

Chapter 13

PETROCON Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan

       Garang waited until Jonjo was back in position before ordering his men to move. The PKM gunner was down to his last fifty rounds, enough to pepper the towers while Jonjo pulled back into the creek line. His team would concentrate their fire on the positions either side of the gate as they leapfrogged back. Jonjo's team would bring up the rear.

       The northern team gave off a few more bursts before beginning their move. They scrambled into the creek line, the team leader accounting for all of his men. Spirits were high as they ran down the creek back towards the rally point.

       Garang heard the thud of helicopter blades over the gunfire as the Chinese built H425 screamed around the edge of the refinery. He watched in horror as the gun pods and rockets caught them cold, 12.7mm rounds smashing into the men, chopping them apart like butchered meat. Rockets exploded in the creek turning it into a burning hell of scorched flesh and blood. In one pass the aircraft decimated the team, all but three of the men killed instantly. None of them were left standing.

       Garang, in shock, hugged the earth as the helicopter gunship roared overhead. A few of his men tracked it with their AKs firing off the last of their ammunition.

       The SFF leader fumbled with his radio attempting to raise the team leader. There was no reply.

       "Garang, we need to go." The man next to him shook his arm, eyes wide with fear.

       The rest of the team looked to him for direction, terrified.

       "We need to split up and run back to the trucks," Garang ordered, keying his radio so Jonjo could hear the order.

       The men didn't need prompting. They burst into the bush as the helicopter circled around for another pass.

       Garang fled as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard the helicopter's guns firing and rockets slamming into the ground. It was off to one flank, near Jonjo's position. He paused under a thick outcrop of trees as the chopper roared overhead, searching for targets. Less than fifty meters away, one of his men raised an AK and blasted away at the helicopter. It was a pointless gesture, the aircraft banked and unleashed another volley of rockets.

       For the next half an hour Garang crept through the thickest bushes he could find. Sharp thorns tore at him, drenching his shirt in blood.

       The sound of the helicopter disappeared in the distance and when it failed to return the SFF commander started to run again. He followed foot trails and animal tracks, putting as much distance between him and the refinery as he could. At a track junction he met with two of his men. They joined him as they covered the distance to the vehicles.

       Two hours later, exhausted, they reached the trucks, the first to return.

       "What happened?" Jess asked as she laid her basic medical kit out on the bonnet of a four-wheel drive. She started checking over the two fighters for wounds. "I heard the explosions."

       "Chinese had a helicopter." Garang dropped into the sand breathing heavily.

       Jess finished her inspection of the two men and made her way to Garang.

       "And the rest of the men?" She made to inspect Garang's wounds.

       "I don't know." He waved her away. "They are only scratches."

       She ignored him swabbing one of the bleeding slashes with an antiseptic wipe.

       Garang pushed her hand away. "Damn it, stop mothering me." He walked stiffly over to where the two-man vehicle security detail was sitting under the camouflage nets. Jess checked over her medical kit in silence.

       Over the next few hours a few men trickled in. None of the first team that bore the brunt of the helicopter made it; all ten of them had been slaughtered in the creek line. Of Garang's own group, three had been lost, killed as they fled. There was no sign of Jonjo and his men. Garang could not contact them as he had lost his radio, forgotten during his frantic attempt to escape.

       There was little work for Jess, a few scratches and a shrapnel wound. Anyone more badly injured had died under the savage onslaught of the helicopter.

       Two hours later Garang had accepted total defeat. From a group of thirty fighters he now only had nine. He had lost all but one of his RPG launchers and all of his PKM machine guns. The mission had gone from total success to complete failure in a matter of seconds.

       The disheartened remnants of the unit pulled the camouflage nets down from the trucks and climbed in, ready for the long drive back to their village.

       As Garang started the engine of the Hilux he heard a piercing whistle. He killed the engine and leapt out of the cab.

       It was Jonjo, leading his men into the RV. Glistening with sweat they dropped onto the sand, exhausted.

       Garang counted them. They were all there and they still had all their weapons. His losses, although brutal, were not as bad as he had thought. He squatted in the sand next to the exhausted Jonjo as Jess made her rounds amongst the men.

       "How did you escape?"

       Jonjo shrugged, matter-of-fact. "We hid in the smoke. The helicopter has only so much fuel. So when it landed, we ran, and when it flew, we hid."

       Garang allowed them to rest a moment before ordering them into the trucks. He had a long drive back to their base to dwell on the defeat. Convincing the other Dinka warriors to join the SFF, when he had left thirteen men behind, dead, was going to be next to impossible.

Chapter 14

Juba Arms Bazaar, South Sudan

       Garang's men had returned directly to their base, an isolated Dinka village hidden in a valley. He had let them rest, confident the location was well hidden from the Janjaweed.

       While the fighters spent time with their wives and children, Garang had returned to Juba with Jonjo and Jess. After a long argument he had persuaded Jess to lend him money from the hospital's meager funds. Garang's supporters in the US had not sent any more cash.

       Once Jess had returned to the hospital and handed over the money, Garang, together with Jonjo, headed into town in an attempt to purchase weapons and ammunition.

       The phrase 'arms dealer' usually evokes images of warehouses stacked with guns and rocket launchers, dealers of death selling tanks and fighter jets to wealthy dictators. Juba's death merchants conformed with none of these stereotypes.

       Garang and Jonjo wandered the narrow alleyway hidden at the back of Juba's traditional markets. They had paid the small fee to gain entry, stepping through the rusty corrugated iron wall as a guard peeled back a loose sheet.

       The bazaar was merely a bunch of stalls selling the usual battered hardware. RPGs, PKMs, AKs and other weapons leaned on racks. Stacks of ammunition were piled high on makeshift tables. It was the same all over Africa; wherever there was conflict, opportunists made money hawking the tools of the trade.

       Garang stopped at a stall well stocked with RPG rockets. He hefted one from the seller's bench and inspected it.

       The owner offered another of the missiles to Jonjo. "Only the best rockets from Nubu's stall, yes?" said the shopkeeper.

       Jess had only given him five thousand Sudanese Pounds and Garang wanted to ensure they got the best value for their money. The rocket he inspected looked in good condition: the end cap was in place, the body free of dents and scratches. Even the booster charges looked new.

       "How much?" asked Garang.

       "Five hundred each."

       Garang gave Jonjo a sideways glance. The young man shook his head and placed the rocket back on the table.

       The SFF leader handed his own rocket to the seller. "Too expensive." He turned to walk away.

       "Four hundred!" The man reached out and grasped his arm.

       "Two hundred," responded Garang, peeling the man's grimy hand from his shirt.

       "No, no, no. Too cheap! These are quality. Russian made."

       Garang looked the man in the eye. "We tend to use a lot of them."

       Jonjo had already moved on to the next stall. The young soldier had picked up a
Dragunov
sniper rifle and was handling it like it was a precious artifact. Even in poor condition it was worth more than the entire SFF budget. Garang made a move to join him.

       "OK. OK. 250." The trader was desperate for a sale.

       "225 and I will buy ten," said Garang.

       The man wavered as Garang walked away. "OK! OK!" he yelled after the SFF leader.

       "Jonjo, pay the man. We will load the ammunition once we are done."

       The young soldier nodded, laying the sniper rifle back in its rack.

       Garang crunched the numbers in his head. The rockets were the most expensive component of the purchase. It had used up half his funds. He still needed to purchase a dozen boxes of AK47 ammunition and at least three boxes of linked ammunition for the PKMs. This would give the remaining SFF warriors enough to defend their camp and conduct some training. If he was going to launch any sort of offensive, he was going to need to find more money and more men—quickly. This was the part that had him worried. Perhaps Jess would be able to get funds from the NGOs. There was no way he was going to dip into his own savings without a guarantee from the oil companies.

       Jonjo joined him at the next stall after paying the RPG salesman.

       As they were inspecting ammunition, neither of the men noticed the eyes that watched them from across the market. A short, scruffy-looking African dressed in jeans and a t-shirt had been following them since they entered bazaar. He had purchased an AK47 and box of ammunition, then followed the SFF soldiers, appearing to be inspecting ordnance as he trailed them. At one stage he had held up a rocket, taking a picture of it with his mobile phone. Garang and Jonjo thought nothing of it; another purchasing agent buying weapons on behalf of one of many militias, private armies, security details or other armed groups that operated in South Sudan.

       The man left the bazaar with his purchases, making his way back to his car. Within the vehicle he scrolled through the photos on his phone, selected one that showed the faces of the two men and sent it to the number he had been given. With any luck the bonus he would receive would be worth close to ten times what the AK and ammunition had cost him.

Chapter 15

PETROCON Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan

       Yang's guards had cleared the burnt wreckage of the tanker from the refinery gates by the time the Janjaweed warriors had returned from their pillaging. The shot-up sandbags had been replaced and workers were busy mounting heavy machine guns in the corner guard towers. A pair of bulldozers pushed back the bushes in front of the fence, adding another thirty meters to the clearing around the perimeter. The creek line that Garang's men had used to infiltrate into their firing positions had been leveled.

       Sagrib inspected the three bodies that Yang's guards had laid out in the vehicle park. "They are Dinka," he confirmed, inspecting the talismans that hung from a dead man's chest. "How many were there?"

       "At least thirty." Yang was standing a few feet away, hands folded across his chest.

       "And you killed how many?" Sagrib asked.

       "Thirteen, possibly more. A number of bodies are still out there."

       Sagrib turned to the Chinese operative with a confused look on his face. "You chased them?"

       "We turned the battle with superior firepower. My helicopter arrived the day before the attack."

       A sickly grin spread across the Arab murderer's face. "Show me the helicopter."

       Yang led Sagrib through the refinery equipment to where the gunship was based. High banks of earth surrounded the aircraft, protecting it from attack. Bunkers dug into the dry sand had been reinforced with sandbags to hold the helicopter's rockets and ammunition.

       Sagrib kept grinning like a child as he ran his hands over the rocket pods attached to the sleek machine. The H425 was a Chinese-built helicopter designed for executive transport. This particular model had been heavily modified by PETROCON, a brace of 12.7mm fixed machine guns and four rocket pods were slung beneath the stubby wings that protruded from its sides.

       "If I call will you bring this to the fight?" Sagrib asked.