The Hundred Gram Mission (14 page)

"And is the UN ready for what might happen if the Egyptians are successful and reach Ethiopia?"

"We are not there yet, but we are planning against the possibility.  The war is destabilizing the region as a whole. The longer it lasts, the more militant groups we’ll see emerging, and the more radicalized they will become. The recent massacres of Christians by militants crossing into South Sudan, are evidence of this danger."

"Comissioner Rao, would you say that the US and Russia are responsible for the crisis in East Africa?"

"I do not think there is any point in apportioning blame. However, the US and Russia can influence their partners in this region, to bring them to the negotiation table. If the Security Council was of one mind, then a resolution could be passed. The Nile Waters Agreement of 1959
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must be revisited. There are many nations with claims, and these must be deliberated on, peacefully."

"Thank you, Ma’am," the red linked winked out. The reporter seemed to relax.

"That was great, Commissioner," Anjana gave a thumbs up. The reporter nodded.

"You think so?"

"Oh yes. You present very well. I can’t wait to see you once we reach the camp."

"Hey," the reporter looked to Anjana, "Do you know how much longer it will be?"

"A couple of more hours. We just have to pass through one more town, a place named Berber."

"Berber?"

"Yes. It’s Egyptian controlled."

The reporter made a face. "Well, you could say that. Asmaran Christians took Berber last week."

Anjana shot Rao a look.

"We’ll be fine," Rao waved her concerns away. "If anything, we’ll be safer."

Anjana nodded. After a few moments, she spoke again.

"Commissioner, do you mind if I ride up front with the vanguard? It’s really cramped in here."

"Not at all child. You’re so tall; this must be killing you. Just check with the lieutenant and see if it’s alright." 

Berber, Twenty five kilometers South

"You were right, Arab."

Sand-grimed men in civvies and flak jackets cleaned their weapons. An ancient T-62’s crew sat outside it, drinking tea and talking. Shaded by a mud brick wall, a sniper sat reading the Bible.

The dark sunglasses leaning against the Land Rover looked up and smiled. He wore Egyptian combat fatigues and a flak jacket. He carried a large briefcase.

"They just sent the order to begin shelling the toll road," continued the speaker. Age had furrowed his face and salted his beard. "The UN convoy is to be discouraged."

Beside him was a younger man wearing ammo belts and an RPK LMG. The light machine gunner frowned openly at the smiling Arab.

"That’s what they have to tell you, Grebremichael. No Egyptian officer can say any more than that."

"You are no Egyptian," said the LMGer, pointing his finger. "Why should we do this for you?"

Gebremichael held up his hand to his junior.

"I never said I was," said Sunglasses. "And what’s in this briefcase certainly isn’t, either.  My people and yours have the same enemy here: the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. Her stance against single-community orbitals has blocked many Christian evacuations. This Western diversity model she imposes in space, is causing great suffering down here.

"Bazen," he gestured to the LMGer. "Did you choose this war? No. The Nile nations have gone to war, forcing their neighbors to pick sides. Right now Sudan’s militias are raiding South Sudan, killing and enslaving Christians. Rao has repeatedly blocked moves to evacuate those threatened towns to the E-series orbitals. Now, what happens when those militias begin attacking Eritrea? Well?"

Bazen said nothing.

"The other reason, is the money. If you agree to kill Lakshmi Rao, then I will pay you the advance. The rest on completion. You need funds, and your émigrés in the US and Italy can only give you so much. Gentlemen, her convoy is on its way.  I will respect your decision. However, now that decision needs to be made."

"No," said Bazen.

"Yes," said Gebremichael. "But you must pay us a lot more. I want double."

"Double?"

"Yes. I will respect your decision, but now that decision needs to be made."

The Arab laughed. "Alright. It is agreed." He opened the Land Rover door and put the briefcase on the seat. He lifted up the lid, revealing a computer. He booted it up and he logged on. A donkey cart drove by, its rider a sun baked farmer.  One of the tank crew belched, loudly.

"Could you confirm receipt?" the Arab said at last, closing the briefcase.

Gebremichael nodded to Bazen, who pulled out a satphone and stepped away. Words in Tigrinya passed into microwaves. A few minutes later he returned, his bearing changed.

"We’ve received the crypto currency," he said. "Ten million."

Gebremichael smiled and faced the Arab.

"She’ll be dead in two hours. Thank you for your business."

Berber, two hours later

"The rear of the convoy has entered the town," said the man with the two-way radio. "Their vanguard should be coming down the road, now Sir."

Unpainted, mud brick buildings lined the dirt road. Crouching behind walls and on roofs were well-armed militiamen. Their keffiyeh-wrapped faces peered, rifles held ready. Behind a tree, a rocketeer and a loader were checking their gear. They stopped and looked expectantly at Bazen.

The growl of engines were heard. 

Bazen put down his light machine gun and looked through his binoculars. Two open-top, Mengshi-pattern Humvees had just come into view. They were packed with Chinese QBZ-111
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riflemen in digital, desert camo. Goggled gunners stood at 12.7mm machine guns, scanning. Sitting in the back, one person stood out.

"She’s in the vanguard!" he said excitedly. "Fire!"

The rocket team mates looked at each other.

"But Bazen," the radioman was still holding the antiquated receiver, "Captain Gebremichael told us to wait for, and target the personnel carriers."

"She’s not in an APC, she’s right there in the second humvee! It’s carrying an Indian woman."

"But Bazen – "

"No buts, fire! We kill her, and this is over!"

"So the UN chick is pretty hot."

Sergeant Zhou scanned the mud brick buildings along the road. Broken windows stared back at him, black and sightless. Berber had been wretched even before the war claimed it. Perhaps it had been a mercy killing.

"A real white swan," said one of the men in the back. He was sitting next to the High Commissioner’s aide. She looked out the window, oblivious.

Private Wu at the wheel, peered into the rearview mirror. "Gao, I think you mean a brown swan."

"I should ask to be her bodyguard," said Gao in the back. "That refugee camp is just a big, jihadi, training ground. Pretty girl like her shouldn’t go wandering around without a guard."

"Don’t be stupid," said Wu. "She doesn’t know you exist. You’ll be sitting in the cold on a bench a long time if you think she’ll ever notice you."

"I think
someone
can’t eat grapes but says they’re sour."

"Don’t bother her Private," snapped Sergeant Zhou. "And never assume people around us can’t understand Mandarin, especially diplomats."

"Yes Sir."

The girl kept looking out the window. She frowned suddenly and leaned towards the glass.

"Hey," she began in English, "I think there’s – "

The Mengshi flipped.

Zhou’s ears rang from the explosion. He was on top of Wu, who was coughing and gasping for air. The cabin was filled with dust and smoke. Someone was screaming, again and again.

"Everybody out!"

Zhou kicked open the door and climbed out. Automatic weapons clattered, the Mengshi rang loudly with each hit.  Zhou dropped to the ground and braced his QBZ-111. Beside him was Private Chen, the machine gunner, dead. Muzzles flashed at Zhou from rooftops.

"Dragon One this is Silk One, over. Dragon One, are you receiving?"

He gave up on the helmet’s radio. He tried the infrared. Immediately, yellow and red blobs lit up all around them.

Private Wu climbed out without his weapon, still coughing.

"Get down," Zhou stood and pulled him down. "Are you injured?"

"I don’t think so, Sir!"

Zhou shoved his rifle into Wu’s arms. "Then shoot something!"

"Yes Sir!"

Zhou climbed back up the vehicle. Bullets passed over his head, optimistic but untrained.

"Everyone conscious in there?" he shouted.

"I’m okay Sir," yelled Gao. "But the VIP, I think she’s hurt."

"Anything broken?" below, Wu opened up with the 111.

"I don’t know, Sir."

"Let’s get her out of there."

Gao carefully picked up the aide. She was limp in his arms, her white blouse stained red. Zhou pulled her out – her eyes had rolled back into her head.

Wu cried out as a rocket demolished the house behind them.

"Could do with some more shooting from our side!"

"Where the fuck is our side?" yelled Gao.

"Just get your gun and get out! I can’t drop her on the ground like this!" More bullets arced past Zhou.

Gao raised up a Type 91 marksman’s rifle, and tossed it out. Then he climbed and fell on Chen’s body. Wordless, he reached up to Zhou. The Sergeant lowered the aide to him.

A hammer slammed into his back, throwing him off the Mengshi. He landed face first, the dirt scouring him. He spat sand and felt a burning in his back. He reached back and dug with his fingers.

"You alright, Sir?" Gao held the limp aide in his arms, like a frat boy rapist.

Zhou pulled out a gleaming, deformed pellet. "Just my pride. You want to show that rocket team what you division medal is worth?"

Gao grinned, and picked up the Type 91 laser. He braced against the wreck, switched to infrared, and began firing. One shot, aim. One shot, aim. Again and again, silent and recoilless.

Zhou checked her wrist and throat for a pulse. It was strong. She had gashed her shoulder, it was bleeding generously. Zhou pulled out a tube from his webbing and bit the top off.  He forced the wound shut, and around it squeezed the tube. A black cream came out, and began setting immediately. The bleeding stopped.

"What hit us?" yelled Wu. He tracked a man running between buildings, and fired.

"I think it was a rocket!"

"Why not just use an IED, and kill us all?"

"Maybe they want prisoners!"

Wu stopped for a moment and glanced back.

"
No one
is getting beheaded today, Private!"

"Yes Sir!"

He left the aide and began pulling the Mengshi’s machine gun from the wreckage. The QJZ-90
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heavy machine gun was an older design, but in the PLA you didn’t fuss about hand-me-downs. He propped it over the Menghsi, and aimed.

Six hundred rounds a minute, poured into the attackers. Zhou looked behind, at the second Mengshi charging forward. Its gunner coolly aimed, tearing up mud walls like paper. The attackers fled.

"About time," said Wu. He noticed he’d been shot in the leg, and swore.

The doors opened and Chinese peacekeepers emerged and fanned out. Laser sights cut red lines into the air. Lowered HUD visors swept the battleground.

"Xie, she needs a medic," said Zhou.

One visor nodded to another, who then ran up to Zhou and the aide. He studied her wound carefully and pulled out a roll of bandages.

"She going to be okay?" asked Private Gao.

"I’m fine," said Anjana weakly.

All heads turned to hers.

"You speak Mandarin?" demanded Zhou.

She smiled. "No one has ever called me a swan before."

Corporal Xie tapped his helmet comm and mumbled an acknowledgement.

"Sir, we need to go," he turned to Zhou. "The convoy is under attack."

"RPGs?"

"Tanks."

Out of the ruins came the Eritrean, Savior’s Protectors Army.

Captain Gebremichael commanded almost a hundred men armed with RPGs and assault rifles. The darling of his force though, was a 120mm, pickup-towed, mortar. It was an old piece captured from the Sudanese. He preferred it to the 81mms the Egyptians would sometimes give them as scraps. With HE rounds, and if Johan was aiming, it cracked tanks.

Johan was aiming, but Bazen the idiot had aimed too, and fired. The ambush had failed and the peacekeepers were going to escape. Unless of course, Selassie’s tank platoon stopped them.

When it was all done thought Gebremichael, he would cut off Bazen’s hands.

"Dragon Two, is the Crane up yet?"