still.”
Satisfied there would be no further outbursts from his young and rather impetuous sibling, Samir Taha returned his attention to the camp ahead. Their intelligence had always been good in the past where it concerned those godless bastards who chose to traffic in innocent women and children. It had been difficult to gain support from government officials. Taha wished he could have recruited more men from their own ranks for this mission but General Kiir had refused to provide them. They were a ragtag bunch, to be sure, undisciplined and poorly equipped. Only half of the assault rifles they carried, Kalashnikov variants, were even capable of full auto fire.
A good number of them were semiautomatics—7.62 mm SKS-style rifles smuggled from connections in China or American-made AR-15s chambered to fire .223 cartridges. The remaining soldiers carried pistols and knives, and the ammunition situation was plain abysmal.
Taha had even begged the general to part with a couple of AK-47s but the old man wouldn’t hear of it.
“We have no reason to believe your intelligence is good,” General Kiir had told him. “If you do this then you do it voluntarily. I cannot risk it as a sanctioned mission.”
The general’s lack of support infuriated Taha but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Although many of the men among them, particularly those who reported directly to Taha, their platoon commander, agreed with Taha, the majority of them didn’t want to cross Kiir. Even among the brave fighters of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, who were fighting for independence from North Sudan, there were those who still bartered for position by politicking. Taha had no use for such men and he knew who they were. He had flatly refused some of those who had volunteered to accompany him on his mission, knowing where their loyalties truly lay.
Up ahead, Taha saw the cook fires of his enemy and smelled the roasted meat on which they gorged themselves. Probably most of their food had been stolen from the village they had razed early the previous morning. Most of the men in the village had been slaughtered, their bodies covered with flies and some of their hands—detached by explosives or the heavy rounds of .50-caliber machine guns—mutilated as food for wild dogs and hungry cats. It hadn’t taken any imagination for Taha to conclude it was the work of the Lord’s Resistance Army.
The very name was vile and brought a sour taste to Taha’s mouth every time he thought of it. These men, barbarians whom Taha would not even acknowledge as fellow countrymen, had known their way in this region long enough. If the authorities in the cities and the members of the Sudanese Armed Forces, representing North Sudan, would not lift a finger to protect innocent Sudanese, then Taha would do whatever he could to fight for those incapable of defending themselves. It was what good men did—it was what Christian men did.
“Prepare to sound the signal,” Taha ordered his brother.
Kumar said nothing in response; they had practiced this many times and he knew what to do.
In one respect, God had been shining his blessings upon them since the wind would mask their approach. The Lord’s Resistance Army would not expect them in the least; their leaders knew of the SPLA’s desire to avoid conflict whenever possible. When the fighting grew too bad, that’s when the government got involved and sent in armed forces that were well-equipped and well-trained. But those military units were not discerning and their orders were to kill any official combatants irrespective of creed. Somehow, and Taha had never been able to understand it, many more of the men in the Sudan People’s Liberation Army had fallen victim to the genocidal policies of the Sudanese Armed Forces than those of the Lord’s Resistance Army. It was more than numbers, more than coincidence.
No matter, because Taha no longer feared what another man could do to him—he only feared looking into the eyes of his God and being condemned to eternal hell because of cowardice. He was accountable for the blood of his brothers and he did not want that accounting to be one of shame. So he would bear whatever burdens were laid upon his shoulders in this time and place.
The signal came: a sudden squelch of the radio in his ear. Taha left the cover of the rocks and moved toward the camp perimeter. Many of the sentries were weary and unprepared for the sudden ferocity of Taha’s assault. As the men entered the camp, stepping inside the defensive line of men spread across the perimeter, the peaceful solitude of the encampment erupted into chaos. One of the Lord’s Resistance Army guards looked Taha in the eye a moment before the warrior leveled his SKS assault rifle and squeezed off three shots. The 7.62 mm rounds cut an ugly pattern in the man’s belly and dumped him onto his back.
Taha turned toward his next target only to discover a very young man who could not have been more than fifteen, but the subgun clutched in his fists knew neither age nor restraint. Taha grimaced even as he fired a short burst that blew the young man’s head apart. Blood and brain matter erupted from the stump of his neck, some of it landing in a nearby cook fire, and the boy’s body followed a moment later.
Taha scooped up the submachine gun, quickly inspected it in the light of the flames now immolating his enemy’s small body and realized why its profile had looked so familiar. It was an M-16 A-3 assault rifle, carbine model with stampings from the U.S. military. The markings surprised Taha so much he nearly lost his life with the distraction. Two LRA members rushed him, the muzzles of their weapons leveled in his direction and winking with the first shots. Taha threw himself into the sand and triggered both of his weapons simultaneously. The rounds managed to stop one of the LRA terrorists in his tracks, but the second evaded by jumping to the right.
Unfortunately neither of the men was at a distance that made using his assault weapon practical and they both committed to a grappling match simultaneously. His opponent was younger and much faster, but Taha had strength and experience on his side. Even as the knife blade sang from the man’s sheath and swung in for the soft tissue of his belly—the blade glinting wickedly in the light of the fire—Taha managed to get inside the attack. Using a move shown to him once by an American mercenary, Taha twisted the arm and hand in a downward motion while stepping between his opponent’s legs. He then twisted in the opposite direction and brought the hand upward while sweeping the outer leg. The force of the sudden reverse in motion effectively dumped his enemy onto the ground, and Taha followed with him. He let his weight do the rest of the work and buried the knife blade into the man’s chest to the hilt.
Taha scrambled to his hands and knees, beads of sweat immediately forming across his head and exposed arms, perched over the twitching body of the man. Taha vomited onto him as the fear and adrenaline nearly overtook his system and caused him to pass out. Head swooning and eyes watering, Taha took several deep breaths and in spite of himself got to his feet. He stood unsteadily for a moment before realizing if he didn’t recover now he stood the chance of being overcome by additional enemies. Taha searched frantically on the ground until he located his weapons, retrieved them and moved off in search of more men to kill.
Taha made it through the camp in no time and realized that the battle had barely begun before it ended. Taha located Kumar and ordered him to give the signal the group should rally. When they were assembled and a head count was taken, Kumar advised his brother that all were accounted for and only one man was wounded.
“Only one?” Taha repeated.
“They were of no significance, this enemy force,” Kumar replied.
Another loyal fighter named Sadiq added, “These were hardly men, my friend. I have fought the dogs of Lakwena before, and these men were untested. They are almost children that were left behind to hold this camp.”
None of this made sense to Taha. He looked at Kumar. “A decoy?”
“I have never known them to do anything like this before, my brother.”
