On Target

The young man just shrugged while he moved to the lousy music. Then he said, “Darfur is as big as Texas in your America, and there are only ten thousand UNAMID soldiers. Most of them are at the camps. Not enough left for every little convoy.” He smiled again. “It’s no problem. The Janjas don’t attack SI. Everybody knows that.”

Court looked down at the young man, surprised. “And why is that?”

“Mr. Mario is a friend to the Janjas.”

Court just looked out the window at the dust. “Perfect.”

Court had not noticed that Bianchi had not transmitted in some time. He could barely hear anyway with the music and the sing-along in the stuffy cab. But when the Italian’s singsong voice finally did come back on the radio, Court immediately sat up straight. Something in the man’s tone was different. His cadence and sudden protocol caught the American’s attention, and he reached out and turned the dial up quickly.

“SI IDP camp Dirra, this is SI Convoy, Truck One, over.”

Court hushed the singing in the cab with him, reached back, and fumbled with the transistor radio to turn it down.

“Go ahead Truck One, over.” A female voice. Australian.

“Margie,” Bianchi’s disembodied voice sounded official and serious. Court had studied voice stress patterns for over a decade. He knew this radio transmission meant trouble even before the Italian spoke. “Our convoy has picked up a woman who claims to be an investigator for the International Criminal Court. She is with a colleague. Can you contact their office and Khartoum and confirm her credentials? If she is who she says she is, we need to have them send a helicopter—”

“Dammit!” Court shouted. The two local tribesmen in the cab with him just stared.

Court realized these transmissions would surely be picked up by the NSS, who, though certainly no tier-one intelligence organization, could sure as shit figure out that the people the SI convoy had just picked up were the same two killing government agents and blowing up shit in front of the Ghost House the night before.

Fucking lawyer bitch, thought Gentry, but he caught himself. She had no reason to trust him over Signor Bianchi. She must have felt safe up there with the head of this aid organization and just confided in him about the danger. It was understandable, even if it did just create a potential disaster.

Gentry’s mind began working full throttle. What were the chances the NSS had picked up that transmission? What were the chances that they would put two and two together? What were the chances they could mobilize assets in the area and either intercept the convoy or be waiting for it outside the IDP camp at Dirra? What were the chances, failing that, that they would be allowed to march right past the UNAMID guards at the camp and grab the girl?

Court looked out into the haze and dust. He thought to himself in a near frantic mental scream, Think! Think, Gentry! What are they going to do? He struggled to channel the thought process of the leadership in Sudanese intelligence. They could not just let Ellen waltz into the camp at Dirra. She would reveal all about their sanctions violation. They would not wait for UNAMID peacekeepers to link up with the aid convoy. Then they would be outgunned, even if the gunners themselves were not particularly energetic about using their weapons.

No, Court thought, if he were running the NSS, he would hit them as soon as possible, out here in the open. Kill everyone in the little convoy so as not to put the focus on the ICC woman as the target of the attack.

He thought about all these possibilities for less than a minute. Processing them in his fertile brain, a brain conditioned to danger, to battle, to intrigue, to deceit, and to threat.

The NSS might be able to get a platoon of GOS soldiers in the area mustered in time to cut off the convoy. But that did not seem likely. They were only a few hours from their destination.

No, the NSS had communications with and control of another fighting force who would be right in the area and ready to do their bidding.

Oh God, he thought. Not those assholes.

As much as he hated to admit it, Gentry could only see one likely conclusion. He nodded to himself. The muscles in his jaw flexed with resolve. He looked to Bishara.

“Give me a map.”

Bishara fumbled through some papers on the floorboard. While he did so, he laughed. “Why you need a map? There’s only one road. You can’t get lost out here, man.” Still, he pulled out the folded map, and Gentry took it from him quickly and began studying it.

It was nearly featureless, but there were some fatal funnels in the landscape, shallow crevices and narrow valleys that they would have to negotiate on the way to Dirra. Any one of these places would be a good place to be hit.

“Listen to me, kid. We’re going to be attacked. Out here, on the road.”

Bishara’s bright brown eyes widened. “Attacked? Who gonna attack us?”

Court looked past the young Darfuri, out the passenger window, and into the near infinite landscape. The terrain rose to the south, fat acacia as big as boxcars amid dry hillocks protruding in the distance.

Court’s voice was strong, but the nerves showed in its tone. “The Janjaweed.”

The young black man cocked his head. Waved a hand in the cabin as if swatting a fly. “Nah, man.”

Gentry turned to the driver. “Your gun. I need your gun.”

Bishara answered for the older man, who spoke no English. “We don’t have no gun, man.”

“C’mon! I know you guys must keep something stashed in case the Janjas come. I’m not with the UN, I won’t tell. We’re going to get hit, and I need your AK, to watch for them.”

“No gun, man. And no Janjas gonna come. We are SI.”

“Doesn’t matter today,” said Court. He thought about his options. He could get on the radio, call up front to Bianchi and have the convoy stop. Then he could tell him of the danger he just caused, have him stay off the radio, and return to Al Fashir.

No, too many variables. What if Bianchi didn’t comply? What if the NSS or the GOS army was racing from Al Fashir along this very road to catch up with them, in which case slowing to chat or turning back would only put the convoy in more danger.

No, the best thing they could do was to press on, try to get to the relative safety of the IDP camp near Dirra before the raiders appeared on a hilltop.

It was something to hope for, but it certainly didn’t mean the Gray Man was going to just sit there with his fingers crossed.

He now tried to channel the mind of the commander of a gang of armed horsemen out here in the desert. What would his plan be?

Shit. He had no idea. Gentry possessed some training in small unit tactics. But not on fucking horseback. This was new territory for him. He tried to think back to the John Wayne movies he and his brother and his father enjoyed when he was younger, just to see if any tactics came to mind.

Nope, not really. The Duke wouldn’t have been caught dead out here in Indian country without a lever-action Winchester, so those old westerns had no relevance to his current predicament.

Court stopped trying to figure out the best tactics that an attacking force would use. This was not Indians versus the cavalry. This was the Janjaweed versus an NGO. The horsemen wouldn’t be looking for high ground, for sound military terrain. Shit, they would be attacking a defenseless convoy. They could swoop down any place and any time.

From what he knew of the Janjaweed, they usually did not attack UN convoys, or any convoys, for that matter. No, the Janjaweed militia raided villages, burned huts, raped and slaughtered. Then they looted.

Looted! Yes. They would want to keep the trucks intact so that they could steal whatever was inside.

Court could picture the impending action now. They would likely just stop the trucks, get everyone out, and begin the butchery.

Back at Harvey Point, the CIA instructors tried to teach Court everything, but nobody ever taught him how to prevent a mass execution while unarmed.

His head spun back to the cargo hatch behind him. “What’s in the back?” Court asked Bishara, who was clearly alarmed by the American’s insistence that they were heading into some sort of an ambush.