Armed Resistance

“Everything seems to be in order,” Bukenya said. “Do you need me to arrange some transportation into the city or have you made other arrangements?”

A chocolate-brown omnibus arrived before Hawkins could reply, a young man at the wheel with shiny dark skin. He rolled down the window and in perfect English said, “You Joes call for a driver?”

Hawkins rendered a casual wave and then grinned at Bukenya. “We called ahead so our travel arrangements are made.”

“And how long will you be in Uganda, gentlemen?”

“Two days at most,” Hawkins said, mostly because he hoped it was the literal truth.

Bukenya slapped the palm of his hand with Hawkins’s passport, his eyes narrowing a bit; he looked as if he wanted to say something else but finally he returned the passports to each man in turn and bid them farewell in his native language. Bukenya whirled on his heel, barked at his officers and in a minute they were gone.

As soon as McCarter exchanged pass phrases with the omnibus driver, he struck up a conversation while the Phoenix warriors loaded up their gear and climbed aboard. Within a minute they were away from the airport and headed north out of what passed for the bustle of Kampala.

“Where we headed, mate?”

In spite of the more stilted intervals, Kumar’s command of English was good enough that he could be understood. “We can go as far as the border. From there, we will have to go by foot.”

“What about our wheels?” Encizo asked from his position in the seat immediately behind Kumar.

The Sudanese freedom fighter glanced in the rearview mirror. “I have a friend who will pick it up and return it to the station here in Kampala.”

“We’re going to walk from the border?” Hawkins inquired. He let out a whistle and added, “That’s a pretty good hike.”

“My thoughts exactly,” McCarter said. “I don’t know how much you know about our mission here but we’re sort of short on time, bloke.”

“I understand,” Kumar replied. “There is another vehicle that will pick us up near Nimule National Park in my country, which shares its southern tip with Uganda. This is an area with large tourism, and lots of vans like this one, so we should not stand out. We will slip across the border under cover of darkness.”

“How far to the border?” Hawkins asked.

“I believe…um, maybe eighty kilometers.”

“You speak English well,” Encizo said. “You had training?”

“Most of the men in our camp are taught English by the U.S. advisers. We are told these men are from language schools and are permitted in the country to help us with reading and writing.” He chuckled and added, “But we know they are actually from your CIA.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things that has us concerned,” McCarter said. “You know anything about our man who disappeared or who might have him?”

“It is not strange, this,” Kumar replied. “Americans are always disappearing here. Some just leave and others are killed by wild animals. Some are kidnapped for ransom, perhaps, but not most. Most are tourists and without much money. And they tend to stick to the larger cities. The rest are usually well guarded by police and their own security forces. Your man was known in Khartoum with many friends. I do not think anyone would risk taking him. They fear American retaliation too much these days.”

“That’s good,” Manning muttered. “They should be afraid of that.”

“What can you tell us about this Lord’s Resistance Army?” McCarter asked.

“They are a knife in our side, this much I swear,” Kumar said between clenched teeth. “We have lost many friends and family to these devils. I live now only to serve General Kiir and fight alongside my brothers to defend South Sudan.”

McCarter decided not to mention he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the rhetoric. He asked, “Is this the first time you’ve come across weapons made in the U.S.?”

Kumar nodded. “As far as I know. I’ve only been allowed into the field in the last year. I work for my brother, Samir, who is leader for our segment. It is actually he who found your guns.”

“When can we meet him?” Hawkins inquired.

“We will see him tonight, later…once we have made it over the border. He waits for us on the other side.”

McCarter reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew the photograph of Jodi Leighton. The CIA still hadn’t heard from their case officer in Khartoum, according to Stony Man’s last update. McCarter wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the Farm’s theory that if they followed Leighton’s trail it would naturally lead them to the weapons. Things weren’t always so cut-and-dried in the clandestine services, and McCarter had no reason to believe this would be any different. Still, Kiir’s men had way more eyes on the ground than the CIA or Stony Man could hope for; those personal connections were their very best hope to locating the missing agent.

“You ever see this man before?” McCarter said, passing the photograph to Kumar.

The Sudanese fighter took the picture, keeping one hand on the wheel while his eyes bounced between the photograph and the narrow road. He took his time before handing it back to McCarter. “He looks like Joe.”

“Joe?” Manning echoed.

“He is with your CIA.” Something caused Kumar to chuckle. “We called him Joe because that’s what he asked us to call him. He always treated us well, gave us information whenever we asked for it. My brother was not happy when we learned he’d been taken.”

That got McCarter’s attention. “Taken, you…you telling me that you know what happened to this chap?”

“Of course, that is why General Kiir requested you come. Joe was always fair with us. He never showed disrespect to our cause like so many of the CIA before him. He was a different man, a good man. It’s the Lakwena that took him. Most assuredly I tell you this.”

“How did they do it?” Encizo inquired.

“Joe would meet one of our people in the city twice a month. He would pass off whatever intelligence he had managed to buy or steal or trade about police movements, and in return we would give him whatever we could learn about the Lakwena.”

“Any idea what he’d do with that information?”

“He was working with another agent, a member of one of the British foreign intelligence services, although I am not sure which one. The men were friends, I think. Joe never told us anything about him and we didn’t ask. It was when he was supposed to meet this man to trade intelligence that Joe disappeared.”

“So you’re absolutely certain it was the Lord’s Resistance Army responsible for taking him?”

“As certain as I can be, yes.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence as McCarter considered this revelation. In all likelihood, if Leighton had been connected with a British foreign intelligence agent it was someone from MI6. Before long, Kumar turned off the highway onto a secondary road that gradually degraded from hardball to dirt and crushed rock, to baked mud with great ruts and divots. Eventually he stopped the vehicle.

“We must walk from here,” Kumar said.

McCarter ordered the team to go EVA, unload the vehicle and wipe it down for prints before questioning Kumar on their next move. It wasn’t that he mistrusted the guy as much as he wanted to know what they could expect to face out there. “Hoofing it across this kind of terrain at night isn’t exactly what we had planned, mate. We’re not equipped for a hike.”

“This is not a problem,” Kumar replied. “There is clothing in one of the bags for all of you, and I think you’ll find that it all fits. General Kiir was notified ahead of time of your arrival, so we planned all of this. You’ll find boots and fatigues, and drop bags for the clothes you are wearing. They may stay with this vehicle and all of your belongings will be delivered to Khartoum, where we were informed you would make your exit.”

“What about the rental?” James asked.

“We have friends here,” Kumar said. “Do not worry, gentlemen. They will pick it up and return it to the rental company.”

“How far do we have to go?” McCarter asked.

“Samir is less than three kilometers, on the other side of the border. We are now a half kilometer this side of my country, so we should be able to pass under cover of darkness without raising attention.”

“What if we encounter border patrols?”

Kumar laughed. “We have much greater worries than the border patrol. While there is a ceasefire between my people and the government of my country, we know that they still hire the Lakwena at times to do their dirty work. The patrols of these fighters, many of them barely men, are vigilant and familiar with the borderlands. They will be vigilant and they will not attack with warning, neither will they take prisoners. The ones who raped my sister and killed by mother and father are led by a man named Bukatem, Lester Bukatem. He has many who answer to him and he is feared in these parts.”

“Lester?” McCarter interjected. “That doesn’t sound much like an African name.”

“Many of the people here who end up in the refugee camps take on English or American names in the hope their real identities aren’t discovered,” Gary Manning pointed out. “These people live under constant surveillance or are perpetually targeted by the Lord’s Resistance Army. I’d venture a guess that this Bukatem was conscripted as a child and brainwashed to fight for the LRA during the 1990s, when the conflicts were still in full swing.”

Kumar nodded. “That is right. In fact, we were raised in the same village as this man. My older brother once called him friend. Now he is our enemy and if we ever make contact with him, I can guarantee he will experience a slow and dishonorable death.”

“Let me be clear with you, bloke,” McCarter said. “There’s no room in our mission here for your personal vendettas. We appreciate the help, but if you plan on using us to seek vengeance on this Lester wanker you’d best just put the idea out of your mind. We’re here to do two things—find out what happened to the man you call Joe and shut down the weapons pipeline to the LRA from the States. That’s it.”

Kumar didn’t look offended but when he replied his voice took on an edge. “I intend only to help you, American. There is no reason to tell me what my duties are. But you should know that my people must first swear fealty to our own because they are defenseless and God demands we protect the innocent.”

This was something with which McCarter could empathize and he nodded in acknowledgment. They understood each other.

As soon as the group had changed into their fatigues and stored their gear, they set out single file. Encizo took point. They didn’t know what they would encounter and it wouldn’t do for Kumar, the only one who really knew where to go and was intimate with all sides of this fight, to buy the farm for that very reason. Hence, McCarter put Kumar between him and Encizo, and the remaining Phoenix Force warriors followed, each careful to put at least ten yards between each man.

A steady rain had begun to fall, only making more precarious their already treacherous journey through the mountainous jungle terrain that made up the border between South Sudan and Uganda. For each man to know where the one in front of him was, since the cloud cover had suppressed what little moonlight might have illuminated the trail, the Phoenix warriors wore small LEDs that clipped to the backs of the military webbing that held their side arms and canteens. A long-life watch battery powered the dim light that glowed in a suffused red, just enough for a follower to see but virtually undetectable from observers at the front or side of the team. Each man carried a spare in his pocket, as well, in the event that his primary gave out.

McCarter hoped they wouldn’t be there that long.

As they traveled, his keen senses staying attuned to their surroundings, the Briton began to wonder what they were walking into. He didn’t mistrust Kumar—hell, the chap seemed cooperative and decent enough—but he couldn’t figure how Bukatem, or anyone in the LRA, would have known Leighton worked for the CIA. Not unless somebody told Bukatem. McCarter hated to think Leighton might have been betrayed by this mysterious British agent, who was most likely attached to either SAS or MI6. McCarter didn’t want to believe a countryman would betray a fellow agent but he also knew the rules were much different in the world of espionage.

In either case, the mission had suddenly become more complex. McCarter didn’t like complicated; the Phoenix Force leader liked simple. In fact the bloodier simple it was, the better. Unfortunately it didn’t appear things were going to get simpler.

After more than three hours of traveling, the entire crew drenched and worn down, McCarter was about to call for them to stop and rest when the staccato of autofire resounded from somewhere ahead of their position. McCarter couldn’t be sure of the distance, since sounds were difficult to judge in the dense foliage of the jungle, not to mention the dark. The reports of weapons were especially deceptive because they bounced off obstacles like trees and boulders, and were suppressed by the canopy of intertwined branches overhead. These factors usually made them closer than they sounded.

McCarter signaled the others to form on Kumar’s position and then moved forward to converse with Encizo.

“How far ahead, you think?” he asked the Cuban.

“Maybe fifty yards,” Encizo replied. “Hard to tell.”

“That’s about what I figured.”

“Sounds like quite a firefight, too.”

“Stand fast,” McCarter ordered. Encizo nodded and the Briton returned to Kumar. “We anywhere near our rendezvous point?”

“Very near,” Kumar replied with an anxious nod.

“Okay, it sounds like your brother may have hit some trouble.”

“I would agree.”

“We’re going to help him but we’ll do it my way. Understood?”

Kumar mumbled something McCarter deemed as affirmation.

McCarter turned his attention to Hawkins and James. “You two swing around on the west side and see if you can flank the fire zone, but don’t engage until you get my signal.”

“And what’s that?” James asked.

McCarter grinned wickedly. “You’ll bloody well know it when you hear it. Go.”

The pair moved off and McCarter tugged Manning’s shoulder to indicate he should stick close to Kumar. “Give us ten seconds, then follow on our position. Make sure you keep your fields of fire away from Hawk and Cal.”

Manning nodded.

McCarter turned and moved back to Encizo’s side. He reached to his belt and held up one of the M-69 fragmentation grenades that had been procured for his team by Kumar’s contacts in Uganda. “We’ll go in using the Old Fifty-One. You ready?”

Encizo nodded his understanding of McCarter’s plan. The technique dated back to the Korean War, a reference to when Korean forces attacked U.N. command positions that were manned by numerically superior forces. Because the Koreans wanted to ensure success, they attacked the positions using gongs and cymbals so as to disorient the enemy. McCarter planned the same thing, only using something more conventional and spectacular.

They set off and traveled about the distance Encizo estimated before they saw the first evidence of the firefight in the form of muzzle-flashes. From what McCarter could observe, it looked like a small skirmish. It was still too dark to determine what lay ahead, friend or foe, but McCarter wasn’t planning to lob the grenade into the center of the fray with reckless abandon. His solution would prove more elegant.

McCarter waved his fist to indicate Manning and Kumar should hold position where they were at—about fifteen yards to the rear—before he yanked the pin and tossed the grenade toward the east, far outside the perimeter of the fire zone. Three seconds ticked off before the hand bomb exploded.

And with that, Phoenix Force moved in to engage the enemy—whoever it might be.

CHAPTER SIX

David McCarter had been right: as soon as Hawkins and James heard the grenade explode, they weren’t in any doubt the show had opened.

“Sounds like an Old Fifty-One,” Hawkins whispered as he put the MP-5 he carried into battery.

James did the same with his M-16 A-3 carbine and replied, “Tally ho.”

The pair stepped from the jungle brush behind which they were concealed and met the first enemy gunners head-on. James wondered a moment how they could tell the bad guys from Kumar’s people but then he remembered that the LRA generally wore uniforms since they considered themselves an organized military force, while the SPLA dressed in whatever rags they could acquire. The green dungaree-style fatigues worn by the four men they encountered, coupled with the nasty silhouettes of Kalashnikov variants, served as positive identification.

The LRA fighters were surprised and while they responded with incredible speed, it couldn’t match the battle-tested skills of the Phoenix Force veterans. James leveled his M-16 A-3 and triggered a short burst that lifted the nearest target off his feet and dumped him into the wet grass with a sloppy thump. The 5.56 mm rounds from James’s weapon ripped holes in the man’s chest. The second gunner tried to swing the muzzle of his weapon to bear, but James had angled away from his original position and triggered a burst on the run. These also found their mark, stitching a bloody pattern across the man’s midsection. His eyes widened with shock and he triggered an ineffective burst of his own reflexively before staggering forward and dropping his now useless weapon. James finished with a second volley that blew off the top of the terrorist’s head.

T. J. Hawkins dispatched his first opponent with the sweep of a muzzle in corkscrew fashion. The 9 mm rounds weren’t as high-velocity as those from James’s weapon but they were no less effective. The slugs drilled through the man’s body and dumped him face-first in the wet muck of the jungle floor. The remaining LRA terrorist managed to get a short burst off before Hawkins cut him down with a fusillade that left a near-perfect vertical pattern from crotch to throat. The man produced a gargled scream as blood erupted from his mouth, the 9 mm buzzers rupturing his lungs.

The men of Phoenix Force swung their weapons in every direction but no further threats appeared, and they finally relaxed a moment to catch their breaths from the encounter.

One lucky round had hit Hawkins in the forearm, taking a small chunk of flesh with it. Hawkins didn’t immediately notice. It wasn’t until James pointed it out that the area began to burn like a dog bite. Calvin James, who doubled as the team medic, immediately whipped a medi-pouch from the small supply bag he carried, ripped the top away with his teeth and slapped it on the wound.

“Ouch! Shit, Cal, take it easy there,” Hawkins snapped.

“Don’t be a sissy,” James said as he wrapped the pouch with the attached elastic bandage and tied it off with a hasty knot.

“I thought you medical people were supposed to have some compassion.”

“Compassion won’t keep you from bleeding out.”

“Dandy of you to point that out,” Hawkins replied drolly.

THE REVERBERATIONS from the explosion had barely subsided when McCarter and Encizo burst through the underbrush and engaged the enemy.

The first LRA fighter, identifiable by the fatigues and gold epaulettes, was still preoccupied with the spectacular light show in the distance. That hesitation cost him his life as he detected Encizo’s approach much too late to respond effectively. The Cuban leveled his MP-5 sub-gun and triggered a short controlled burst that ripped through the man’s guts and spun him into a tree. He smacked the trunk head-on and fell stiffly onto his back.

McCarter took the next two with a weapon he’d not utilized in some years, an Ingram M-10 machine pistol. While no longer as popular as it had once been, the Ingram suited McCarter in a close-quarters situation due to its accuracy at shorter ranges and its stopping power. The weapon stuttered, McCarter holding it tight and low as it spit death at a rate of nearly 1200 rounds per minute. Of course, McCarter didn’t need nearly that many since the .45 ACP slugs, one of the two native calibers for the M-10, proved more than effective.

The first LRA terrorist caught a 4-round burst dead-center, the slugs blowing golf-ball-size holes out his back. The second took two rounds to the pelvis, which left smashed bone and cartilage in their wake. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, the scream cut short by two more rounds that entered below his jaw at an angle and blew off the top of his skull, generating a grisly spray of blood and gray matter.

McCarter and Encizo pressed forward even before the last body hit the ground. A couple of rounds buzzed over their heads but it sounded as if most of the fighting had abated. The warriors pushed through more brush and entered a clearing where they spotted eight men, three of them on the ground motionless and a fourth cradled in the arms of another. Blood dribbled from the man’s mouth, visible only because another man had a flashlight on him.

The remaining men gathered around the pair turned toward McCarter and Encizo, raising their weapons in preparation to engage. McCarter heard a shout a heartbeat before something brushed past his arm. He looked to see Kumar throw himself in front of the Phoenix Force warriors and raise his hands.

“Wait! It is me. I have brought the Americans!”

The men waited a moment longer and then lowered their weapons. Kumar nodded at McCarter and then rushed to the man who knelt with the wounded one cradled in his arms. A brief conversation took place between them and each clamped the shoulder of the other. The man between them, blood continuing to ooze from the corners of his mouth, coughed and smiled at Kumar. Slowly, then, the light started to leave his eyes and less than thirty seconds later his body slumped in the arms of his comrade with a finality McCarter had seen too many times.

Gary Manning sidled alongside McCarter at about the same time as James and Hawkins appeared from the brush on the opposite side.

“What’s going on?” Manning inquired.

“I’m not sure but I think this was our rendezvous party,” McCarter said.

“Looks like they were ambushed before we could get here,” Encizo added.

“Well then, we’re bloody well lucky because if we’d met any earlier we would have been hit right along with these blokes.”

The men who had been ambushed were, in fact, Kumar’s people. He introduced the man who had been cradling the wounded SPLA fighter as his brother, Samir Taha. They shook hands in turn and then Taha ordered his men to secure the perimeter, searching the bodies for intelligence while they guarded the party from further attack.

“We thank you for coming when you did,” Taha said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” McCarter replied. He gestured toward James. “This here is Calvin. He’s a medic. Any of you hurt?”

“None that are still alive,” Taha replied as his eyes flicked to the dead body at his feet.

McCarter frowned. “How do you think the LRA knew you were here?”

“I do not know.”

“How about a guess?” Encizo pressed.

Taha looked at him with a haunted expression. “I do not guess, sir.”

“Okay, never mind that,” McCarter said with irritation. “We just bloody well need to worry about getting out of here. What about our man? Your brother seems to think that maybe this Bukatem bloke might have taken him. Do you believe that?”

“Our people in Khartoum have confirmed it. But we do not know the location of Bukatem’s base of operations or even if your man is still alive. We only know they are operating deep inside of our country. We do not know where. And General Kiir will not provide additional men to help in our search.”

McCarter smiled. “Well, let’s just see if we can’t help you with that.”

IT WAS DARK and musty and smelled of death.