Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton
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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.”
“Nor have I,” Taha said with a vigorous shake of his head. He held up the M-16 A-3 for the men to see. “I also took this off one of the Lakwena fighters. It is American-made and a forgery I seriously doubt.”
“Why would Americans equip our sworn blood enemies with weapons to fight us? They will hardly even provide General Kiir with equipment we’ve requested. Have they switched their allegiance?”
“I do not have an answer, Kumar,” Taha said. “But it is not of great importance right now. Begin searches on the remainder of the camp and see if we can find any clues as to the direction they may have gone. Also search the body of every man here. If you find any alive, see if you can revive them enough to question them. I want to know if any of the others have American weapons on them. General Kiir will want to know this and any intelligence that we can take will help us. Let us not return to our leader empty-handed.”
With a nod from Taha to signify he had finished giving orders, the men scattered across the camp and began to search the bodies for any information. Taha doubted they would find any—it wasn’t like the Lord’s Resistance Army to leave behind anything of value.
His unit had learned of the camp from a young girl, a villager who managed to escape notice and waited in the weeds for three days straight, afraid to show herself even after she saw Taha’s force arrived at the village. Of course the little girl had been able to tell them absolutely nothing of the size of the force or the weapons they were