Kruger didn’t have the layout of the second camp but he was sure it was much the same. If alerted, the group would mass their troops at the gate. It was crucial that they extracted immediately after the assault and head for the second compound. If things were the same, a couple of low gun runs to kill any sizeable groups would be necessary before setting down. Instead of breaching the gate, they would exit the helicopter inside the compound and find cover behind the machinery or the tailings. The M203 could halt the rebels and allow for fire and maneuver until they cleared it.

  Bringing a chopper into a hot LZ was never desirable but it was the most rational thing to do considering the tactical situation. Sergei’s men would lay down heavy, continuous fire. They would reload ammo on the ride over and get fire superiority quickly. He would discuss it with Salvo tonight when they regrouped.

  “Bravo 2-1, this is Whiskey Kilo, how copy?” Kruger spoke into his tactical boom.

  “I Copy, Whiskey Kilo, sit rep favorable ,” Salvo responded.

  “Copy that Bravo, see you soon.”

  “Roger Wilco, out.”

  Chapter 12

  Dak-ho Kwan awoke in his sleeping quarters hungover. He religiously drank enough Nsamba, or Palm Wine, to poison a normal man. His years of drinking made him appear much older than he really was. At thirty five years of age, some people took him to be closer to forty five.

  He rolled out of bed and sat up, his head spinning. A sudden wave of nausea set in and he grabbed a bucket by his bed and vomited violently. He had not eaten the night before so the dry heaves were painful. When his body stopped convulsing he looked into the bucket. Bile and blood. That isn’t good, he thought. It has been happening with more regularity, though most mornings all he needed was a good breakfast to quell his stomach. At least when he was deployed, he did not have to worry about being watched and trailed by his senior officers.

  He had been disciplined many times by his North Korean superiors for conduct unbecoming an officer and servant to Kim Jong-Il. He didn’t give a fuck about Kim Jong-Il but if he showed signs of disrespect or insubordination to the nation, he would either put in a camp for criminals or summarily executed.

  A career soldier, he graduated from the best Military schools in North Korea and became a proficient Special Forces soldier in the Peoples Army’s elite Reconnaissance Brigade. They were the covert operators designed to infiltrate South Korea and start a ‘second front’. Should a war break out, the majority of forces would fight along the DMZ. They would go farther south and fight guerilla actions.

  He mastered military science and was fluent in French, English, Japanese and Swahili. He had operated in South Korea many times and even Japan. With his alcoholism and petulant behavior, his commanders recommended him to work overseas. A place that should he die, no one would know or care.

  He had worked in Uganda and Rwanda, providing assistance to the enemies of the DRC in the Second Congo war. It was a backhanded move made by North Korea’s Intelligence Service. In the past they had allied themselves with Zimbabwe, providing training to Mugabe’s Army. Zimbabwe sided with the DRC during the war and provided troops to repel Uganda and Rwanda. North Korea wanted access to the precious minerals of the DRC.

  He thrived in Africa. His natural abilities as a guerilla fighter and leader allowed him to profit in diamonds and gold wherever he could find them in the Congo, Rwanda, Uganda and Angola. His ability to provide weapons and materials to criminals and Rebel groups made him a sought after ally.

  It meant nothing to him to enter a small artisan mining operation and kill every last living thing and take the meager wealth of the people who wanted nothing more than to work and live in peace. Locals had employed witch doctors to put curses on him and his men and personally offered rewards for his death but to no avail. Men under his command had died mysterious deaths but he remained. He loved his work. Killing the dirty race of Africans was a pleasure to him. He had not seen North Korea for five years and doubted he would ever return. There, he was under constant observation and discipline of the hardened Special Forces officers of North Korea. In Africa, he freely employed his skills and made money doing it.

  He gave what the Great Leader demanded, filling his coffers with diamonds and gold. He was the first man to smuggle out Uranium to the Nuclear hungry nation but he didn’t forget himself in the process. If anyone of his soldiers questioned his theft against the Great Leader, he gave them two options. Join him or die in the heart of Africa. Most had died. Men trickled in from the home country sporadically. They were all well trained but had made someone unhappy and were sent packing to Africa. Most of them didn’t make it back to Pyongyang.

  Forming a criminal syndicate in the DRC was his personal pride. He had made the acquaintance of Francois Malouff, a formidable soldier and smuggler in his own right. Supplying training and weapons to Malouff’s men was easy. Kwon’s smuggling ring funneled minerals home seamlessly. The Intelligence Service was more than happy to use that pipeline to provide him with weaponry. The longer he spent in the Congo, the richer he became.

  He had recently been contacted by two Arab men. They wanted to do business with his organization. He was no fool, he knew the men were terrorists. He declined to entertain them. The CIA had become very gifted at tracking down members of Al Qaeda over the last decade. He did not want to be on their radar screen.

  Most of his activities took place in the Kivu provinces of the eastern part of the DRC that bordered several nations but they had moved south to Katanga province when they heard that KR was working a new Gold operation. It seemed to be an easy operation with little competition from rival gangs. An impotent Congolese Army with the capital a thousand miles away posed little threat to them. The United Nations had never posed a threat to them.

  He put the bucket of vomit down and washed his face. He would leave their base camp and check on the progress of the gold mines. He dressed himself and kicked the woman he had used the night before out of his quarters. He still despised African women but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Chapter 13

  The day wore on for Bravo. The etched every detail of the compound in their minds. Every Rebel was continually accounted for, noting their clothing, their demeanor and even the way they walked. Every angle of the compound was evaluated. Every minute detail mattered. Decisions would be made in split seconds once the assault commenced. In a chaotic situation, anything could happen. Mental preparation was essential.

  Salvo had played this game many times before. He had often spent a week watching his targets. Patterns emerged. People were creatures of habit. And those patterns were exploited. Habits got a lot of people killed.

  The sun had reached its apex and was sliding downward. The afternoon heat of the Savanna was merciless. He looked at his watch. 1535 hours. Just a couple of more hours and they would make their way to Kruger and Taylor. He looked up from his watch and noticed a dust plume rising from the road in the distance headed toward the mine. It was the first vehicle to come or go they had seen. He communicated the visual to Simmons and McGee but they already saw it.

  One of the leaders that they had been watching closely began talking into his radio then went to the gate and gave orders to the guards. A nice Toyota truck, the Humvee of Africa, pulled up to the gate and drove in. It was a newer model but had been spray painted with a very poor camouflage pattern. It had four armed men in the bed. They pulled up to the air conditioned trailer that served as the office. The team was watching closely, hoping for new intelligence on exactly who these people were.

  A large African in a Maroon Beret got out of the driver’s side. They immediately noticed the bandage on his left arm. He was shirtless and wore BDU pants and combat boots. A pistol hung from his right hip.

  “Whiskey Kilo, we have unknown visitors inside the mine, over,” Salvo radioed Kruger.

  “Copy that.”

  The passenger side door opened and out stepped a short stocky man with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He was Asian. Bravo’s concentration was interrupted for a moment. An Asian was the last thing they expected. The men around the truck stood at attention and saluted the African and the Asian. They returned the salute and walked into the trailer.

  “ Visitor one is African with a Maroon Beret and visitor two is Asian, over.”

  “Asian, over?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Copy.”

  ****

  Kruger looked at Taylor after the transmission. Taylor shrugged his shoulders. Kruger’s mind began to turn. He knew that there were Chinese advisors in the area training Congolese soldiers. Had they just uncovered something devious by the Chinese? There had been tension recently between the Government and the Chinese. For the last 20 years, China had been in Africa trying to claim what resources they could to continue their rise to power in the manufacturing arena. China itself didn’t hold enough ore needed to produce the consumer goods demand. African nations were usually thankful for the Chinese doing business with them. They came and built roads and infrastructure and didn’t ask questions about their politics. It was by no means a hostile takeover. They learned the lessons of the European demise of Colonialism. They brought good tidings and money in exchange for minerals without imposing their ideology.

  It didn’t add up to Kruger. Even though the DRC had demanded more money from the Chinese, he didn’t see China using force for a couple of small gold mines. Perhaps someone had gone rogue. It would have to be a person of considerable connections and reputation to form and lead a rebel unit in a very tribal nation. They would find out soon enough.

  As the sun set, Salvo radioed that they would be moving out and that the Toyota was headed their way. About 15 minutes later the truck pulled into the mine. They were greeted with salutes and one of the men in charge brought out two jugs and handed them to the African and the Asian.

  They switched to NVG and watched the men sit around and drink. Palm wine, Kruger thought. He had had his share of the liquor over the years. Between the Dagga and booze, the pre-dawn raid might be a slaughter. The mining operations ceased and the working men washed themselves at the well then ate rations and slowly drifted into the barracks.

  The security detail indulged in the smoke and drink, sitting in small groups. They continued their party until 2200 hours. The Asian and the man in the Maroon Beret picked up two crates and put them in the bed of the truck. It had to be the gold, Kruger thought. The men came to attention and saluted the two Rebel leaders. Clearly drunk, they ignored the salute and got into their Toyota and left the compound.

  Around 0100 hours Bravo arrived at Objective A. They had brought what they could out of the cache left for them. There was only so much ammo and grenades a man could carry on his person. The water had been the most vital. The heat had caused them to sweat relentlessly and they were able to stay hydrated with the electrolyte packages that they brought. Dehydration was a foot soldiers worst enemy.

  “Those two unknowns have left. They have helped us immensely by boozing up the security detail,” Kruger said optimistically.

  The usually quiet and stoic Simmons spoke. “You think the Chinese are in on this, Boss?”

  “There is no way to know unless we take some prisoners. We will not be taking any prisoners here. We will get Major Bell to interrogate any survivors at the second stop. If things go well we will keep that in mind. We aren’t here to work Intel for Joseph Kabila.”

  “Boss, what do you have in mind?” Salvo asked.

  “The best option here is a close quarters rush. We’ve got to eliminate the guards. Salvo, you have the silencer. We are going to have to cross the road and go in through the front gate. It’s the closest point to where the men are laid up. Most of them are stoned. Once we silence the guards, we hit the barracks and frag the place. What’s left of them, we light them up. A three man stack and one for security. We’ve also got two men in the trailer. Blake, you take care of that and then stand security.”

  “Once we enter the compound, I will alert Sergei to head this way. He will already be airborne. We should be in the Helo for less than 5 minutes. Immediate weapons and ammo check. Any questions?”

  No one responded.

  “Salvo, plans for the second stop?”

  “ The setup is the same. I recommend that we set the Helo down near the mining equipment and mounds. This will give us some immediate cover when we exit the Puma. We’ve got about a hundred meters to cover if we need to maneuver. It’s likely they will either pour out of the barracks guns blazing or will already be awaiting our arrival.”

  “If it’s the first, a few rounds from the 203 should keep them off balance. We’ve got plenty of frag’s. We need to use them. Mike, you can find a spot and lay down covering fire and keep them pinned down. Colin, you’ve got the .50. If they huddle up inside the barracks, start blowing holes through those concrete blocks. Make sure no one gets near those mounted PK’s. We can pick off guys from cover but if we are caught in the open, it’s going to be those machine guns that kill us.”

  “If it’s the second, we will have Sergei do some gun runs. We should be able to dump some more 203 and whatever else along with what the Helo has. Eliminate as many men as possible before we set down. Fire and maneuver.

  “Once we have secured the place, we extract and go back to Base Camp and see what we can do about the missionaries.”

  “Everyone copy that?” Kruger asked.

  “Roger,” everyone replied.

  “We need to be inside those gates at 0445. We’ve got the upper hand here. Things are looking bright but we’ve all been here before and then shit hits the fan. Once we go, we don’t stop till they are all dead,” Kruger warned.

  “I’m going to link up with Base Camp and get things situated. Hydrate, eat if you need to and check weapons and ammo till you are sure that you or one of us isn’t going to die because of a fuck up on your part.”

  Chapter 14

  Kruger had relayed the timeline and tactics to Sergei. He would be airborne at 0420 and fly a holding pattern far enough away to not alert anyone. Sergei loved his vodka but he was dry tonight. If things went well, the liquor would flow later. The team had put together a plan that would not expose the Puma to needless danger. The only direct fire that Sergei should have to handle would be the insertion into the second mine. The last thing they needed was a downed Puma and dead or wounded pilots to worry about.

  The team circled wide away from the mine and crossed the road in bounds. Once across, they used the bush as cover and crept toward the main gate. Their pace slowed as they closed in on the sentries at the gate. Tonight, only two men stood watch. Through their Night vision optics, they could see that the sentries were very alert. They had not taken part of the festivities that evening. Again, there was a sign of some organization. Though they didn’t appear to be a crack outfit, there was some design to their operations.

  The men spread out at twenty five meter intervals with their weapons trained on the sentries every move. If the sentry removal went bad, they would have to spring into action quickly. They had every confidence in Salvo but an elite soldier took nothing for granted.

  Salvo left his M-40 with Blake McGee. Though it would be of no use in a close quarters battle, they might need it in the second phase. Sentry removal had been taught and refined by Special Forces since world war two. There were a million ways to deliver the death blow, from a wire around the neck, a knife across the throat to a simple bullet from a hidden position.

  Tonight, Salvo would have to use a silenced 9mm from about 30 meters. He checked all his gear, tightened up anything that moved and began the stalk to get into place. During his days in Delta, he had shot hundreds of rounds a week for several years. The handgun was an extension of his body. He never experienced nerves once he began to engage targets. It was the waiting and planning that he wrestled with. When the whistle blew and he had a weapon in hand, he was supremely confident. As he belly crawled through the bush his mind quickly flashed to the men who were about to die. He had no feeling toward them. They were evildoers, regardless of how they had chosen that path. They were young, as were most soldiers in Afica, but that was none of his concern. They were obstacles to accomplishing the mission and they had served their last night of duty.

  He reached a tall clump of grass and rose to one knee, bringing up the P228 pistol to bear on the first Rebel. The men were looking down the road in each direction. With their heads facing perpendicular to his gun, he took careful aim just behind the ear of the first man. He lowered it just a hair to make sure that it sliced through the brain stem and would quietly render him dead. He put his finger on the trigger and began the pull. Focusing on the sight picture, the front sight lined up perfectly. The break of the trigger came as a surprise to Salvo, creating a perfect follow through.

  The bullet found its mark and severed the brain waves to the body and the sentry fell limp. He quickly transitioned to the second man as he turned to see what had happened. This time the shot entered the man’s chest cavity twice and the third entered his eyeball destroying the brain tissue. He was dead before he hit the ground.

 

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