Line Of Honor

Bolan made the backing out motion with his hands. “Bring it out, Goose!” The Unimog truck rolled out under Pienaar’s guidance. Tshabalala was already riding shotgun. An MZ 125 SX off-road motorcycle was mounted on brackets on the front and rear bumpers.

Bolan waved the last vehicle out. “Rad! Rover 2!”

The Land Rover whined in reverse as the Serb extricated the vehicle. Nelsonne and Onopkov jumped in as a unit. Shartai shouted out of his scarf-swaddled face, “Boss! With permission? I will go with the mademoiselle!”

“Go!”

Shartai clambered in to Rover 2. Bolan squinted into the wind and dust behind them and clicked the tactical clipped to his shoulder. “All units, hold up. We have company.”

Two vehicles were heading in their direction.

Bolan raised his binoculars and examined the vehicles. One was a Chinese-made military 4x4 and the other a flatbed truck. The back of the truck contained nine men in camo. They all carried Kalashnikovs and their faces were swaddled against the dust. Bolan squinted at the dust-covered windshield of the 4x4. The man in the passenger was wearing mirrored blue sunglasses and a black beret. Nelsonne appeared at Bolan’s side with Mrda and Onopkov in formation behind her. Bolan handed over the optics. “Any idea?”

“I believe it is Captain Osman Osmani.”

“You know this jack wagon?”

Nelsonne handed back the binoculars. “I do not know what a jack wagon is, but I strongly suspect that he is one.”

“So this is a shakedown?”

“Most likely. However, he is not some greedy, sitting-on-his-hands captain who just accepts bribes. He was very active in the fighting both in Darfur and South Sudan. It is very likely the United Nations will get around to trying him for war crimes. The information I have is that he has actually stepped up his strong-arming and extortion to build up his nest egg before he flees prosecution.”

Grimaldi spoke across the com link. “You want me to take off?”

“No, that’ll just make the captain suspicious. Come on out. Leave the ramp down, but be ready on my signal.” Bolan watched the vehicles approach. “Everyone out. Be friendly. Remember, we’re an NGO helping displaced refugees. I’m going to try to pay these guys and send them on their way. But be ready to take them down. Follow my lead.”

The rest of the team formed up. Ochoa took position at Bolan’s right hand. “Hey, Jefe?”

“Yeah, Sancho.”

“You said take these guys on your go?”

“That’s right.”

“These guys got AKs. I can see them from here.”

“It does appear that way.”

“Yeah, but, you haven’t given us any guns.”

Lkhümbengarav nodded. “What he said, hot rod.”

“We’re in an international group of doctors, drivers and volunteers. Osmani and his men don’t expect resistance. If it comes to it, we jump the sons of bitches, pound them like nails, confiscate their weapons and disable their vehicles.”

Ceallach cracked his knuckles with an explosive ripple of pops and cracks. “Right! The old-fashioned way, then.” He raised his hand and waved at the approaching vehicles in a happy fashion. One of the gunmen in the back of the flatbed actually waved back. The vehicles ground to a halt. The soldiers jumped down out of the flatbed, some with their rifles in hand. Others had them slung. Most had their folding stocks folded. They were in a low state of alert. The captain was more leisurely as he let his driver jump out and open the door for him. Two soldiers got out of the back. The officer wore a stainless-steel Ruger .357 Magnum revolver in a conspicuous gunfighter’s rig low on his thigh.

Bolan arranged his face into an obsequious smile and stuck out his hand. “Good morning…” He made a show of looking at the patch on the man’s shoulder and smiling hopefully. “Captain? I’m Dr. Cooper.”

Osmani barely acknowledged Bolan’s guess with a slight nod. He ignored the outstretched hand. The big American looked at his hand and lowered it sheepishly. The captain had the accent of a man whose primary language was Arabic. “I am Captain Osmani. I will see your manifest immediately.”

Bolan blinked in feigned surprise. “We already passed customs and inspections in the capital. Is there some kind of—”

“Your manifest, Dr. Cooper. Immediately.”

Bolan nodded at Grimaldi, who held out his clipboard. Osmani’s driver intercepted the clipboard and then handed it to his captain. Osmani flipped through the pages listing medicines, medical equipment, water purification gear and various aid-station necessities.

“Captain,” Bolan said, “I’m very sorry you had to come out in the middle of this storm.” Osmani inclined his head and gazed at Bolan over the rims of his sunglasses like a snake eyeing a not particularly fast or wily insect.

Bolan recoiled and let himself stumble on over his words. “I mean, Captain, as you may have heard, there has been an outbreak of dysentery in the interior. We need to get our water-purification equipment on-site as quickly as possible. Every second counts.” He stammered like a man who wasn’t used to these sorts of negotiations. “Is there any way we could…” Bolan made a show of swallowing a frog in his throat. “Expedite things?”

Osmani handed the manifest back to his driver, who handed it back to Grimaldi. The captain lowered his official hostility by a tiny increment. “I am aware of the ongoing humanitarian crisis. Rather than requiring you and your people to return to the capital and—”

Nelsonne gasped on cue and clutched Bolan’s arm. “Return? But, no! We bring—”

Osmani didn’t miss a beat. “But it would be better for you to continue your humanitarian mission immediately. However, since I have been dispatched in my official capacity, certain permits will have to be authorized.”

Bolan looked at the captain like a deer in the headlights. “I understand completely. I was given some money for…discretionary expenses.”

“Excellent.”

“How much do you…?”

Osmani sighed tolerantly. “How much discretionary income do you have?”

Bolan very reluctantly produced a money belt from under his shirt.

Osmani’s driver leaned in and whispered something in Arabic. Both men looked at the Kong brothers. The driver whispered urgently. Osmani went reptilian once more. “Who are these men?”

“They are Abdullah and Salva. Interpreters recommended by the Red Cross in Nyala,” Bolan explained.

“I am reminded of a story about a pair of twins I have heard. Rebels and war criminals who are wanted in Khartoum.”

“Captain, I assure you—”

“I am taking these two men into custody. You will submit to a full inspection of your cargo. You will mount your team into your vehicles and return with me to town where the matter will be investigated further. Your passports and all currency both foreign and domestic will be temporarily held. You will button up the plane, leave it here and the pilot will come along, as well.”

Bolan let his jaw drop and made a show of failing to draw up some dignity. “Uh…team? This must be some kind of mistake. We’ll get it cleared up back in town. In the meantime, I want you to obey the captain’s every order and assist him and his men in all ways.” Bolan turned back unhappily. “Will that be sufficient?”

“For the moment.”

“What would you like to inspect first?”

“You will show me—”

“This?” Bolan’s sucker punch snapped the bridge of Osmani’s sunglasses and the septum beneath. The right uppercut lifted Osmani onto his toes and sat him down. Pienaar and Tshabalala exploded into synchronized flying rugby tackles that pushed two of the men holding their rifles into the dust. Bolan spun 360 degrees and his spinning back-fist clouted Osmani’s driver like a ball and chain. Nelsonne’s leg flew upward in a goose step from hell and her savate kick toppled a man, spitting teeth as he fell to the ground. Bolan looked for his next opponent.

His team had the situation well in hand.

The Executioner turned his head just in time to see Tien Ching relax his hands. Three men lay fallen at his feet in moaning ruin. Ochoa stood over a man who clutched his groin and vomited. Mrda had his man in a stranglehold and was easing him down to the ground. Onopkov rubbed his head and lit a cigarette. His man lay on the ground with an egg-size lump between his rolling eyes. The Kong brothers gleefully stomped the truck driver who lay in a ball trying to cover himself.

Bolan watched with admiration as Ceallach pressed his opponent over his head and hurled him against the grille of the truck. “That’s for you, wee man!” he roared. Wee man bounced brutally off the bumper and fell fetal into the dust.

Bolan waved the Kong brothers off. “Enough.”

Shartai gave the truck driver a last kick for good measure, then the brothers began walking up and down the line of violence, collecting weapons.

Bolan looked at Grimaldi. “Where were you?”

The pilot waggled the manifest. “Someone had to hold the clipboard.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“No problem.” The pilot looked meaningfully into the mounting storm. “Can I go now?”

“Yeah, you’re out of here.” Bolan turned to his team. “Haitham, Shartai, load their weapons into the back of our truck. Speaking of weapons, Lucky, break ours out. Goose, T-Lo, burn the command vehicle. Who here is good at tying up people?”

Nelsonne smiled winsomely. “I am quite talented at securing men.”

Bolan grinned. He bet she was. “Secure the prisoners. Rad, Val, help her and then load them in the back of the truck. Leave them any water they brought. Confiscate any phones or radios. Sancho, disable the truck engine, and I mean permanently, then help Scotty get the canvas top on over the prisoners. Once you’ve finished your jobs I want everyone to go to the Mog and Lucky will issue you weapons.” Bolan watched as his team set about their tasks with well-oiled precision. “We’re out of here in twenty.”

4

The Sudan

The dust storm died at dusk. The team set up camp for the night in a dry creek bed and strung camouflage netting across the three vehicles to form a covered camp. It was a cold camp, as well. They kept no fire, and the heating elements of the MREs were used in the back of the truck. Bolan walked over to the Unimog. Nelsonne sat in the cab monitoring the radio. Everyone was bundled against the sudden chill. “Any chatter?”

“Nothing on the captain, but I suspect his superiors keep him on a loose leash. He has carte blanche to commit his crimes, and they demand their cut when he reports in. I don’t think anyone will go out looking for him until tomorrow, perhaps the day next.”

“You think he’ll come after us?”

Nelsonne sighed. “You should have killed him.”

“That would have drawn the wrong kind of attention. He was humiliated, and he’s going to have to explain how he got his ass kicked to his superiors. I’m betting he won’t. He’s going to pay off whoever pulls him and his men out of that stalled truck. If he tries to come after us, it’s going to be a private vendetta. I’d like to think I forestalled any official notice of our departure.”

“You have a gorgeous mind.” Nelsonne sighed again longingly. “I would still like to have seen you kill him.”

“It may still come to that.”

Ceallach appeared at the other cab door. He held a couple of steaming coffee mugs and passed them out. “Bit of all right this morning, then.”

“Yeah, you gorilla-slamming one of Osmani’s men was pretty impressive.”

The Briton made a self-deprecating noise. “Call that a ‘potato toss’ back home.”

Bolan knew Ceallach hadn’t come to reminisce about the morning brawl. “What’s on your mind, Scotty?”

“Been talk among the lads.”

“What kind of talk?” Bolan prompted.

“Well, we’re feeling a bit like mushrooms, then, aren’t we?”

It was a mantra invented by U.S. Special Forces during the Vietnam War.

Mushrooms: kept in the dark and fed on shit.

Ceallach sipped coffee and turned a contemplative eye to the Sudanese night. “Well, you wouldn’t hear me saying it… .”

Bolan decided to give a little. “The target is a high-value individual, and may require forcible extraction out of a refugee situation.”

Ceallach nodded knowingly. “You know, Striker? I’ve seen this movie. Wrong part of Africa, but in the end everyone dies but you and the sexy bird.”

“I saw that movie, too.” Bolan nodded. “Wasn’t bad.”

“Is there a sexy bird, then?” He gave Nelsonne a wink. “Besides the one we already brought along?”

“There is,” Bolan stated. He slid out of the cab. “I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“I’ll stay here and guard Russo.”

Nelsonne smirked.

Bolan scooped up his rifle.

Lkhümbengarav had issued weapons just before the convoy had headed out, and grumbling had ensued immediately. Ceallach went so far as to give it the raspberry. Bolan’s team were all spec ops or at least elite-unit veterans. It had been some time since they had seen wood-and-gunmetal-blue weapons rather than black plastic and matte-black Parkerized steel. That wasn’t quite true. They saw it often, but almost always in the hands of the hapless people opposing them.

The Chinese Type 81 rifle looked like a stretched version of an AK. The one nod to the twenty-first century was the forward-mounted optical sight that John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man Farm’s armorer, had mounted where the rear iron sight used to have been. In its favor, the rifle could fire the ubiquitous Russian .30-caliber ammo littering the Sahel, it came equipped with rifle grenade-launching rings, and Bolan’s team was currently dripping in them.

Mrda was on sentry duty. The Serb spoke quietly across the link. “Striker.”

“Yeah, Rad?”

“Contact.”

“All units, arm up. Prepare to break camp. Everyone get your night-vision eyes on. Drivers, get behind your wheels but do not start your engines. Sancho! Haitham! With me!”

Ochoa appeared at Bolan’s elbow in an eyeblink. He had volunteered for the role of the soldier’s right-hand man, unasked for but with admirable will. Haitham loped out of the darkness. “Striker-man!”

Bolan put a finger to his lips. Haitham fell into formation and the three warriors jogged toward Mrda’s position. They stopped running and quietly climbed the ladderlike clay side of the arroyo. They stretched out on either side of Mrda. The Serb was staring intently through the scope of his Dragunov sniper rifle into the wasteland. “They’re coming straight toward us, Striker.”

Bolan brought up his binoculars.

It was a scene he had seen more times than he could count. The people walked and limped in a small mob. Everything they owned they carried. The lucky ones had blankets wrapped around them against the evening cold. There were far too many women, children and the elderly, and far too few men and boys. They hunched and searched the sky for the sound of jets or rotors. They cast fearful looks behind them for the terror that had driven them into the desert night. Bolan saw no weapons beyond walking sticks and crutches.

“Jesus,” Ochoa muttered. “‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…’”

“‘Yearning to breathe free,’” Bolan continued. “‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’”

Ochoa turned to Bolan. “Jesus, Striker! You gave me goose bumps!”

“You been to the Statue of Liberty, Sancho?”

“No.” Ochoa grinned beneath his night-vision goggles. “But I’ve been to the Rio Grande.”

Bolan snorted. “You’ll do, Sancho.” He clicked his com link. “Scotty, bring up the SAW. I also need a canteen of coffee. Put a lot of sugar and powdered cream in it.”

“Roger that, Striker. On the double.”

Mrda’s sniper rifle never wavered from the refugees. “How do we play it?”

“Me, Sancho and Haitham are going to go talk to them. You and Scotty are going to cover us.”

Ceallach trotted up the arroyo with his Type 81-1. It was simply a Type 81 assault rifle with a longer, heavier barrel, a bipod and a 75-round drum. The Briton handed Bolan the canteen, then snapped open the legs of the bipod and took position next to Mrda. “Bob’s your uncle, Striker!”

Ochoa sighed. “I don’t understand a word he says.”

“Let’s take a walk.” Bolan walked out into the night flanked by Ochoa and Haitham. They covered about a hundred yards and stopped. Bolan watched the mob blindly approach through his night-vision goggles. At fifty yards he pushed up the device on top of his head and took a glow stick out of his web gear. He gave the stick a bend and a shake and a green glow filled the night. The platoon of refugees immediately came to a halt. Several individuals bolted from the group in random directions. Bolan stood with his rifle slung and waved in a friendly fashion. Haitham called out in Arabic. An old man and an old woman detached themselves from the group. Each wore a gray humanitarian-relief-issue blanket like a shawl and each leaned on a stick. The two came forward warily. The old man had an ancient-looking Sudanese arm dagger strapped just below his shoulder. Haitham nodded to the elderly couple and exchanged quiet words with them.

He turned to Bolan. “They are Sirel and Mina. They are Christians, and displaced farmers.”

Bolan uncapped the canteen and held it out. Sirel caught the smell of coffee and insisted that Mina drink first. Sirel waved his arms and spoke rapidly. Haitham translated.

“They say bad men attacked their camp, though they got warning across the missionary radio and managed to leave. They fear the bad men are still looking for them.”

Ochoa rolled his eyes. “What do they have that anyone would want?”

“Women,” Bolan said. “And children. They’re commodities around here.”

Ochoa turned his head and spit. “Christ wept.”

“Haitham,” Bolan said, “ask them if it’s Captain Osmani they’re afraid of.”

Mina spoke for the first time. She started speaking low, but she began waggling her stick and speaking in greater and greater outrage. “Mina says that Osmani is bad. Everyone knows who he is. He comes and he takes any gold or silver or medicine, but these men are worse. They come on horseback. They take everything, and they are led by a terrible individual called Yellow Mnan. They say he keeps hyenas in his main camp and feeds people to them.” Haitham stopped translating. “Something about him being an…evil ghost?”

Bolan considered that. “Ask her if Mnan is black like you but has skin like me.”

Mina nodded and made the sign against the evil eye.

“He’s an albino.” Bolan knew how much of a badass an albino had to be to rise to a position of leadership in a genocidal civil war.

Mina continued.

“Anything Mnan does not want, he burns,” Haitham said. “Anyone Mnan does not want, he kills.” He frowned. “And Mina says when they kill they take their time.”

“Sound like some real loco hombres, Jefe,” Ochoa added.

“Janjaweed,” Bolan said.

Sirel and Mina flinched in unison.

Ochoa brightened. “Ganja weed?”

“Janjaweed, Sancho. It’s an Islamist militia. They were originally drawn from the nomadic tribes in East Darfur. The Sudanese government used them to try to pacify the rebelling farming tribes who were mostly Christian and Native African animists. The lines got blurred pretty quickly. At one point it was rumored the government in Khartoum was emptying the prisons, giving each man a horse and an AK, saying, ‘Go west, young man.’ They were widely accused of genocide.”

“Jesus…”

“Jesus is right, Sancho. They’re real bad hombres, and loco.” Bolan did a quick head count and clicked his com link. “Russo, I need thirty-seven protein bars and the same of the bottled waters.”

“Sacre bleu!” The French agent sounded bemused. “Do I detect a big, fat heart in that American chest?”

“Just do it.” He turned to Haitham. “Ask them how far behind Mnan and his Janjaweed men are.”

Sirel spoke for long moments. Haitham looked as if he might cry. “Sirel says his people are the dead, walking in dust. They leave little to follow unless one of them dies. He says Mnan probably does not know where they are, but he will be roaming for his next prey.”

“Jefe?” Sancho asked.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t like this Mnan. I don’t like him at all.”

“Me, neither, Sancho.”

Nelsonne walked up with Onopkov behind her. The lanky Russian carried a big box. The refugees were scared of Bolan and his group, but they recognized international aid immediately and swarmed forward for food and water. Nelsonne smiled, chucked chins and passed out food and water and hugs like a pro. More than the concentrated calories and desperately needed hydration, the woman was passing out empathy, and hope. She was also quickly interviewing each person she fed. The French agent was also cataloging interviews as she distributed aid. When the last elderly person had cracked the cap on his water bottle and the last child had crinkled open the wrapper of his food bar, Nelsonne rose and leaned in to Bolan. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me we’re going to wipe the Sudan with this Mnan.”

“The French do have the term ‘mission creep,’ I assume?”

Bolan had to factor in the fact that Nelsonne was an intelligence agent and quite possibly had her own agenda, but the woman seemed to be getting genuinely worked up about the refugees. “Then why did we stop and give them food? We fatten them up for slaughter?”

“To get intel? Because we couldn’t have them walk on top of us and set up camp?” Bolan suggested.

“We’re going to kick Mnan’s ass.”

“We just might teach him not to go our way.” Bolan watched the refugees as they finished their rations. They sat huddled together, literally leaning against one another to hold themselves up. Half had already fallen into exhausted sleep. Some couldn’t help themselves and tore into the rations Nelsonne had issued for the morning. “Or theirs.”

“So we kick his ass?”

Bolan considered the geometry of horror in sub-Saharan Africa. Sirel and Mina’s people had left tracks. The only reason they hadn’t been ridden down already was that Mnan and his cohorts had probably found something else to temporarily distract them. Sirel and Mina’s little band had women worth raping and young girls to be sold in the slave trade. They also had young boys who could be used the same way or turned into child soldiers; and when all was said and done, Yellow Mnan would be very interested to hear about a heavily loaded convoy headed into the interior.

Bolan nodded. “We’re going to kick him in the nuts and see how he likes it.”

Nelsonne rose up on her toes and kissed Bolan on the cheek. He smiled as his right cheekbone tingled pleasingly. The soldier clicked his com link. “Lucky, put the Rovers into gun-jeep configuration and prep the cycles.”

The Mongolian grinned. “You got it, hot rod.”

Nelsonne stood on tiptoe and breathed in Bolan’s ear. “Hey, soldier. You want to get laid?”

“In Bruges,” Bolan murmured back. “And only if we win.”

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