Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 23
“I fucking hate him so much,” Private Barsamian grumbled from the turret. Frey knew it was just jealousy, but a little healthy competition between Marines was always a good thing.
The drone must have covered the handful of miles to the town labeled Lenge on the map quickly, because the convoy did not wait long before hearing the news.
“Two, One, we have some company waiting for us up there. Couple of motorbikes, a Hilux, and about a dozen dudes. Look like locals.”
Frey had little time to make a decision. Every second brought them closer to the town. They had passed through a smattering of remote villages and towns. Most had been little more than a dozen or so thatch roofed huts along the road, but occasionally they had found more modern cement block structures with corrugated tin roofs. It seemed, like much of Africa, to be haphazard, but it was a good reminder to avoid complacency. Like their homes, the people of each village were just as unpredictable. Usually, the people of the villages had either paid no attention to their passing but they had been occasionally stopped and shaken down for some water or diesel, and at one time, a pair of boots.
They had developed and rehearsed a response to having to stop. They needed to project strength but not expose their real weaknesses. Usually four men from the first two vehicles dismounted and negotiated when they needed to stop. One uniformed member of the other vehicles also dismounted and would keep curious eyes and hands away from the vulnerable trucks. This was easy for the two gun trucks, but with the tall LMTVs it required some creativity. The back gate would be lowered, and the dismount would jump out without the aid of the ladder.
They hadn’t had to depart in a hurry yet, but Frey knew that was more luck than any sort of skill on their part. This is what concerned him about the motorbikes being ahead of them. Their main ally was speed and surprise, but with every village they passed, more and more people learned of their presence. Motorbikes were the method of travel of choice for civilians and rebels alike in this part of the Congo. They moved fast over the narrow trails and were light enough to be carried across rivers. A motorbike cut you loose from the single road, and allowed both messages and men to get ahead of the slow-moving convoy.
“Same plan as before—two from the front, two from mine, and then one dismount from the others. Make sure we leave a gap between trucks, and let’s get this over with quick,” Frey told the rest of the convoy. Each replied in sequence, Lieutenant Betz in the rear giving the last “Roger, over.”
It was early in the afternoon and despite the hazardous terrain, so far they had made good time without major issues. They were about two hours from the Luvua River and the ferry across. From there, it was another two days to the relative safety of friendly Rwanda. If they could just get back to the N5 Highway on the coast, they would make it. Frey had no intention of letting whatever waited for them in Lenge slow them down longer than was absolutely necessary.
The town of Lenge sat nestled in the jungle, which itself sat flanked by the rolling green hills of the mountains that had lined the horizon since they had entered the Congo. The mysterious and often misty mountains sat off in the distance, but as Lenge appeared on the horizon, it seemed somehow more ominous. It was the same as the other villages they had passed, with fifty or so houses in various states of disrepair, each behind its own row of vegetation which doubled as a fence. Occasionally mud walls had been erected, giving the village the look of a dirty maze.
“Drop it to twenty-five; don’t bunch up and slinky,” Frey told the convoy over the radio. This was not the time to go fast and hit some kid chasing a ball into the road.
The convoy reached the first house and slowed. The streets and homes were filled with people. Women in brightly colored dresses adorned with exotic patterns walked the dirt streets while hordes of children scurried about their feet. Men, some with button-down shirts, carried large blue containers on their heads. What people did here for a living was anyone’s guess, and Major Frey’s pondering was interrupted by the first truck.
“Here they are. Blocking the road. Let’s get out.”
Frey toggled the switch on his chest to talk to the convoy. “Halt the convoy, security dismounts out. Eight, you are in command. Out.” He watched the convoy slow behind him in the mirror, and then come to a complete stop. While he was on the ground, Lieutenant Betz would be in command of the convoy. He was neither the most experienced leader in the group nor even the best for the job. But it was his responsibility, and the lieutenant would have to do what centuries of young officers before him had done: his best.
“Lopez, you are with me,” Frey told the young Marine in the back. He didn’t need to. Lopez knew by now what his job was and already had his heavy armored door open. Stealing a quick look back towards the LMTV his family was in, he saw Sergeant Black hopping onto the packed red ground. The Marine flashed him the horns, a quick gesture that had become ubiquitous throughout the convoy.
From the turret, Barsamian, still bristling from his lack of combat, yelled down, “I hope they eat you!” to his friend Private Lopez.
“Lopez, far left,” Major Frey told him as they jogged the short distance to the first truck. John and Sergeant Patrick were already on the ground to their right. John had refused a replacement for the departed Enoch, meaning his truck was without a dedicated dismount. Their driver Sergeant Patrick was serving in that role, which annoyed Frey, but not enough to push it.
“Ten total, I’m one to three,” Lopez undertoned as they approached the group of Africans ahead of them.
“Four to five,” replied Major Frey, dividing up the ten potential targets between them as they approached.
“Six, seven,” John replied, followed up by an “eight, nine, ten,” from Patrick on the far right, completing the sequence.
Major Frey studied the fourth and fifth man. Man number four, who was really no more than a boy, wore a neon green soccer jersey that read “Fly Emirates” across the chest. He was shoeless, and his tattered jean shorts did little to flatter his skinny legs. The fifth man was older—just barely out of his teens—and wore a cotton T-shirt labeled “McCormack’s Heating and Cooling, 24/7 Emergency HVAC Service, Albuquerque, New Mexico.” Both clutched AK47s as if the rifle would fly away. Number Four’s gun looked almost as big as him.
The two groups stood roughly ten paces from one another on the street. A pair of decrepit stone and mud buildings lined the street another ten feet off to their right. John’s gun truck was still running behind the Americans, its diesel engine, even at idle, growling loud. None of the Americans spoke Swahili, the main language of the region, so for a heartbeat, both groups stared at one another, waiting for the other to make the first move in the negotiations.
Major Frey couldn’t help but chuckle silently. Lopez, a full foot shorter than him, stood to his left. He was wearing his Kevlar helmet and one of the body armor vests they had found at the embassy. It had been a small, which fit the diminutive Lopez, and one of the older camouflage patterns. His mishmash of colors, from the green uniform to the bare tan helmet, to the gray digital patchwork of his body armor, made him look more like a Congolese soldier than the pride of the United States Marine Corps. That at nineteen he was little older than some of the Congolese he faced off against added to the irony. John and Sergeant Patrick were to his right. Patrick was similarly adorned, but John, as was usual, had a T-shirt and a blue cap with a big red F stitched into the front. They looked like a motley crew, and not in the least bit representatives of the best equipped army in the world.
Suddenly an English voice called out from the back of the group of Congolese in front of them. “Welcome, gentlemen, I am sorry we have not had a chance to meet until now. My name is Jean-Bosco Mutombo.”
A jolt of confusion tore through the brains of the four Americans like they had landed on the moon and seen a McDonald’s. It wasn’t merely that this man, clad in clean and pressed khakis and a white dress shirt, spoke English, it was the fact that his English sounded like he had just stepped out of class at Oxford. It was perfect, with the right amount of aristocracy accenting his words. But as polished as his clothes and voice were, his face belied the truth. The man had a jagged scar snaking across his neck and disappearing inside his pressed shirt. He wore yellow aviator sunglasses, and his hair was cut short. Dangling on the man’s chest, just visible in the half-open dress shirt, hung a gorilla’s tooth clasped to a gold chain. He was tall and lean, towering over the squad of boys gathered in front of him. He alone was not holding a rifle, and in fact had no weapon visible at all, although Frey assumed he had a pistol somewhere on him.
Perhaps sensing their astonishment, Mutombo continued. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to our humble part of the world. You are, judging from your uniforms, Americans, I presume?” His broad smile, displaying a set of bright white teeth, would have put even the most wary at ease, had it not been for the way his eyes hungrily darted across their weapons.
“We are, yes. Mr. Mutombo, was it?” John answered, his voice taking on the tone of an Ivy Leaguer. “We are merely passing through your land and are glad to make your acquaintance. My name is John; this is Major Frey.” He reached his hand out and took one step forward. It was a gesture of friendship, but the ten young rebels in front of Mutombo nervously closed ranks around their commander and shouted in Swahili, checking John’s advance with their boney fingers waving in front of them.
“Hold,” Frey instructed his group under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear. None of the youths had raised their weapons, and getting into a gunfight on this street was not a recipe for success.
John stepped back, his hands raised, a calm and disarming smile on his face. His hands were up, and to the untrained eye he posed no threat to anyone.
Mutombo spoke quickly in Swahili to his group, who slowly stepped back from their full throated defense. “My apologies. The loyalty of my men does me great honor, but sometimes their zealotry can be excessive. I am sure you will understand the, shall we say, difficulties in controlling men, Major Frey.” His tone and his overall demeanor were so out of place, they unsettled the entire group.
Nevertheless, Frey had experienced interactions like this all over the world, with cultural divides far greater than this one. Shaking off the oddity of the situation, he said, “I do indeed, Mr. Mutombo.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit from the American army?” Mutombo asked, his long fingers interlaced in front of him.
“We are just passing through,” Frey answered, his voice firm, hoping the non-committal answer would signal their lack of interest in the internal politics of the Congo and whatever faction Jean-Bosco Mutombo belonged to.
“Ah yes, passing through.” Mutombo smiled again, waving in acceptance of the old idiom. “Through Sangwe and Monga, and the rest of our beautiful countryside?”
“Just taking the scenic route,” Frey said.
To Alex’s right, John looked around the town, like Alex knew he would. The man always wanted to see everything, to know everything, and to be aware of anything that might be missed by others. The town, once having shown signs of life, had quickly cleared out. The two groups of armed men were now alone in the street, facing one another, while a huge cloud of dust rose from the road miles behind the convoy, and drew quickly closer. John locked eyes with Jackson in the turret, who slowly dropped from behind the machine gun back into the truck.
“It has been a lovely drive, and we are making such good time, as I’m sure you understand, Mr. Mutombo. Is there something we can do to help?” John asked, not letting his voice betray his mounting concern.
“Ah yes, the old American let’s… how do you say it?… cut to the chase.”
“We are nothing if not dreadfully impolite,” John said, bowing slightly.
Mutombo’s eyes flashed the briefest confession of confusion as he wondered which of these Americans was in charge. In the Congo, western groups were often led by some sort of governmental civilians with a military escort, but they were just as often led by a military officer. Neither John nor Major Frey had claimed the mantle of leadership, and the confusion put Mutombo on his back foot, intentionally so.
“It is just this that I came all the way out to Lenge to speak with you. You see, we do not typically permit foreign armies to cross through our territory without at least paying the fees for our road maintenance. Even when they are the foreign aid projects I manage, we usually excise a small tax on these things, for community improvement, I’m sure you understand.”
The eloquence of the request did little to change its root nature. No matter the pretense of formalities, Mutombo was requesting a bribe. That he was doing so standing behind ten armed men made it more akin to extortion.
“Now, I understand that given certain exigencies in the world right now, the American dollar doesn’t have the power it once had.” Mutombo smiled slyly as he said this last bit, letting them know that even in this remotest part of the world, he was still a man who could get information. It was also a veiled threat, as Frey felt instinctually. This African, who by all measures wielded some unknown level of power here, was tipping his hand to tell them that he knew no one was coming to save these Americans if anything were to happen to them here.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Alex asked him, sensing the conversation was taking a predetermined course he did not much care for. He stared unflinchingly into Mutombo’s eyes as he asked the question, not wanting to show weakness, but he could sense his targets moving in front of him. Not far enough to have to acquire new ones, but moving nevertheless. If anything happened, one second might be all there was. Still, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“Well, as you cannot pay, I think there may be a… service… you could render us. These trucks. I assume they are full of supplies, and some soldiers?”
Alex said nothing, not wanting the man to sense his worry. He, more than anyone, had reason to keep the Congolese away from the people in the back of the trucks.
“It is so rare that we are handed such a gift by new friends. And this is what we are—friends, are we not?”
“I would like to be,” Alex told the man, his pulse rising.
“These trucks, they are unlike anything we could get in the Congo, especially now, with the UN leaving and Europe and the United States otherwise occupied. Who is to say how long it may be before we see such fantastic machines again?”
That was it. Finally. Frey knew he wanted one, or more, of their trucks. Trucks they could not part with. Trucks filled to the brim with not only people, but the supplies those people needed to cover the thousand miles to Rwanda. A Rwanda that, despite their having been traveling for days, they were little closer to than when they had started.
“I think perhaps a gift of one of the big ones, and one of your armored ones. You know, the one here, with the machine gun on top,” he said, pointing to the HMMWV parked a few feet behind them. “That would be a fair trade for our protection and the use of our roads.”
“Is there anything else?” Alex asked, searching the man’s face for even the smallest sign of backing down.
“There is always the option of staying with us as our guests. Men like you, with your skills, are always appreciated. After all, is it not one of the finest traditions of the Congo for one party to hire professional mercenaries to fight the other?”
Just then Lance Corporal Jackson popped back up from inside the HMMWV’s crew compartment and interrupted the moment.
“Sir!” he shouted to John over the roar of the diesel engine. “Truck Three thinks they dropped ten or so of the water cans about five miles back.”Alex looked at John, whose eyes had narrowed slightly. “Tell them to hold on, we are busy up front.” He knew whatever words Jackson was using were a code, but one he did not have the cipher for.
John reached out, and put his hand on Alex’s arm, before taking the lead in the discussion with Mutombo. “So, you either want us to give you some of the trucks or run around here like forest rangers?”
“Ranger.” That was the code word the meet-and-greet team had arranged for when things were going badly. They had rehearsed all sorts of possible outcomes to these interactions, and the most far-fetched, at least to Alex, had been the scenario where they would need to initiate contact. But in a gunfight, especially one at close quarters, the man who fired first had the advantage. So Alex and John had come up with a two-word combination that either could use. Ranger was the first word in that sequence.
“I would prefer to think of it as you being our guests, of course, in our employ. My father owns a large rubber plantation not far from here. We are well respected in the community, and, as you might suspect, have been greatly wronged by the central government in Kinshasa. They are thousands of miles from us and yet they oppress us. Is it not our right to govern ourselves? Do you Americans also not preach ‘no taxation without representation’?”
“And if we say no?” John said, his voice flat, his earlier Ivy League pleasantries gone. Patrick recognized that tone. He’d heard it once before, in a dark and abandoned room lit only by a single red light.
Mutombo flashed a shark’s smile. “I would rather you did not. It would be more beneficial for everyone involved if you were to just do the neighborly thing and meet us in the middle. It isn’t like the United States Army will miss two vehicles or the pleasure of your company for a brief time even in the current times. Whereas we will be very grateful for your contribution to our cause.”
The youths before them had begun to sway on their feet, a sure sign of fatigue. This conversation had carried on longer than they were used to, and boys the world over did not appreciate standing still for long. Most wore sandals. One, the oldest who appeared no older than twenty-one, was barefoot. The boy in the Real Madrid jersey was looking past them at the trucks parked behind the Americans, fascinated by their size. The elder, wearing the goofy-looking McCormack’s Heating and Cooling T-shirt, was holding his rifle by the wooden pistol grip, pointing at the ground. Frey’s thumb instinctively reached for his selector lever on his rifle, which would take it from safe to semi-automatic. It was a nervous habit. One he had done thousands of times.
