might be inclined toward pursuit, a well-known signal that they would best keep their own legs from leading them to certain death.
The Asemes are but the latest casualties in repetitive waves of attacks on rural Gabonese by
From the
— Editorial
(translated from the French):
GABON’S NATIONAL CREDO: IF YOU CANNOT COMPETE, CONDEMN!
Let us begin with the obvious: gang violence and brigandage are unacceptable wherever they may originate. But unless Gabon ceases it efforts to make others accountable for the outlaw problem in its northern districts, casting blame elsewhere rather than engaging in an aggressive pursuit of homegrown malefactors and tribal agitators, its police and military forces will soon be pointing their guns skyward to guard against menaces from distant galaxies…
They toiled in the steamy midmorning heat, a dozen men in jungle fatigues swinging their machetes through the parched brown sedge and waxy clusters of euphorbia beside the dirt road. They kept their sleeves rolled down and wore heavy protective gloves, taking care to cover their skin; the succulents were filled with burning latex juice, and had thorny spurs all along the ribs of their fat, tangled branches.
The men thrashed at the dense vegetation. Their head wraps were drenched with sweat. The camouflage hoods they would put on were still stuffed in their pockets, unneeded as yet. There were no eyes about to see them, and they were not in any hurry to feel the heavyweight Nomex/Kevlar fabric slicken against their streaming wet cheeks and brows.
They worked in the heat, worked ceaselessly, creating clear fields of fire for their ambush. Their shoulder- slung Milkor 5.56-mm semiautomatic rifles were of South African origin, as were the lightweight 60-mm commando mortars and multishot barrel-loaded grenade launchers hidden farther back in their 4?4. Two Shmel RPO-A infantry rocket tubes rounded out their arsenal of heavy weapons, the “Bumblebee” variants designed to fire fuel-air explosive warheads.
A Russian military specialty used to devastating effect during their Chechen campaigns, man-portable thermobaric hardware cannot be purchased cheaply on the black market.
The job’s sponsors had been anything but close fisted.
Although some members of the band had equipped their mortar tubes with reticulated, microprocessor- controlled electronic sights, most felt the attachments were burdensome and off-balancing to their aim. Kirdi and Kulani bushmen from northern Cameroon, they had been raised with the bow and arrow as rural Americans might be with the hunting rifle. Where seasonal drought defeats cultivation of food crops, live game is a vital source of protein, and the need to kill or go hungry does more to perfect one’s weaponry skills than gun sport. For these men, the ability to acquire a target was basic to their survival, and they were masters at calculating range and determining projectile trajectories.
Five hundred feet ahead of them, the dirt track plunged eastward into a thick, shaded grove of mixed okoume and bubinga, where a smaller group chopped at the tree trunks with axes, perspiration glistening on their muscled brown arms, their blades snarling in epiphytic vines that coiled up and up around the bark into the leafy green crowns.
The trees crashed down one by one and were rolled across the road. Then branches, brush, and pieces of slashed vines were strewn over the felled trunks to lay a screen of foliage over the ax cuts. Obscured from sight by broken patterns of shadow, the treefall blended into the overgrowth from a distance, and to the drivers of the line of approaching vehicles, would appear to be a natural phenomenon. Long before they might inspect it closely enough to learn otherwise, their convoy would be surrounded on all sides.
Another indispensable survival tool of the hunter is his knowledge of how to exploit the terrain for camouflage and concealment.
The group’s construction of their road block took a little under two hours. When they were satisfied the job was done, several of them went over to join their fellows in the copse of tall grass and succulents, while others spread out amid the trees. A single man scaled up a bubinga to saddle himself in a fork of its widespread limbs and find a comfortable position for his Steyr SG550 sniper gun, custom-railed with an AN/PIS thermal, day/ night sight.
The men in the copse had also finished their preparations of the area. Their gloves and uniforms tacked with spines and dripping the pasty, whitish secretions of the euphorbia stems, they had cut fire lanes that were as unobtrusive as the log barrier.
Now the band of hired jungle fighters would plant their mortars, and rest, and wait.
It would be a while yet before the UpLink convoy reached them.
A few minutes before the outset of the Sette Cama supply and inspection run, Pete Nimec stood talking with Steve DeMarco, Joel Ackerman, and Vince Scull at the airport parking area where their UpLink team had gathered. Nimec was leaning back against the driver’s side of a modified Sword Land Rover, elbows propped on the hood. The other three faced him in a close ring. Their tight little huddle around Nimec, and the 4?4’s bulking frame behind him, would make it tough for anyone watching from out of sight to monitor their speech.
“The company execs ready over there?” Nimec said, and nodded toward a nearby line of Rovers and trucks.
“Tucked into their seats nice and comfy,” DeMarco said. “And actually glad to be headed into the jungle after finding out about the termites.”
Nimec couldn’t say he blamed them. “Freight loaded up?”
DeMarco gave an affirmative nod.
“Okay,” Nimec said. “It’s a broiler today, but let’s be sure we wear our vests. No exceptions. There should be extras stowed in the Rovers for the execs. We all know our jobs. Stay alert.”
“Knowing we’ve got the crawling eye on us,” Ackerman said, “it sort of comes easy, chief.”
Nimec looked at him. “I’m just being careful,” he said. “The bugging surprises me, but it doesn’t knock me out of my socks. After Antarctica, our base getting hit hard on a continent where there isn’t even supposed to be guns, I half expect anything. You need to remember where we are. This country’s surrounded by other countries where nobody’s in charge of the farm. Or everybody claims to be. I can imagine how some of the authorities here just might feel threatened by foreigners.”
“Even ones bearing gifts,” DeMarco said. “You think that could be the reason we’re being scoped? Some eager-beaver gendarme trying to impress his bosses?”
Nimec shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to downplay the seriousness of it. My gut tells me there’s a better than even chance we’re onto something else. But until we firm up our information, we should be careful about what we assume.” He paused, then shrugged again. “My point right now’s really that for the past week or so you’ve been protecting material assets. Ground freight. Everybody here knows it can put you into a certain mode.
