Ty Patterson
The Warrior
Acknowledgements
Donna Rich for her proofreading, Pauline Nolet for her proofreading and editing, Jason & Marina Anderson of Polgarus Studio, for formatting.
Dedications
To my wife who challenged me, and my son who inspired me.
Chapter 1
He lies in the moonless night, waiting.
He came to the village just as dusk settled in, and has become one with the rainforest. The mud huts with thatched roofs are just about a hundred yards away, so close that he can hear conversations in the huts, families eating, children crying, and women cooking. The village is split by a road going through it, with huts almost evenly scattered on either side of it, about two hundred of them in all. He knows from his reconnaissance file that there is a concrete structure in the middle of the village that serves as a communal school and youth center.
He observes the arrival of the soldiers close to midnight, about forty of them in two trucks and an open-topped Jeep, a few white-skinned among them. He hears them banging through huts, the screams of women and children, sounds of violence, and the occasional shots.
He calls Andrews on his satellite phone.
‘Shit has happened. Forty-odd soldiers drove in half an hour back. I can’t see what’s happening, but I can hear women and children screaming, and shooting. I’m going in.’
‘No!’ Andrews shouts across continents. He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘Don’t engage. Observe, record, and report was your remit, and still is. Are those FDLR soldiers?’
‘Wearing those uniforms. A few white-skinned in them as well. Haven’t a clue if they’re the real deal or not,’ he replies. ‘I can get up close and personal and find out if I go in.’
Andrews laughs harshly. ‘I know what that means. You are not going in whatever happens. I’ll call their embassy in Washington as well as our embassy over there and alert them. BUT YOU ARE STAYING PUT.’ His voice rises with each word.
He lets Andrews stew in the ensuing silence for a long while till Andrews breaks.
‘I know what you want to do, but trust me on this. You are a more valuable asset outside than inside despite whatever shit is raining down there.’
He hangs up on Andrews and continues observing, blackness coiling deep inside him.
He starts the tabla in his head to drown out the anguish of the women and children, and forces his mind to play various taals. He is on the teentaal when the trucks finally roar off filled with the soldiers; the voices of the women and children mute a little, but not by much.
The Jeep is still there, its front just peeping out from the shadow of a hut. He silences his mental tabla and listens. Ghostly shadows move between the huts occasionally. If sound could be blotted, it would be a lazy evening in the Congo.
Zeb is a specialist, a troubleshooter — a private military contractor if you want to be nit-picky.
In an earlier life, he was with the US Special Forces. Some would say he is a mercenary. He is hired around the world for his skills in finding things. Things such as stolen nuclear warheads or terrorists. He is also hired for finding people: hostages kidnapped for ransom, soldiers held prisoner in enemy territory, civilians held hostage by wackos — finding anyone, really.
He has often acted as a bodyguard, security consultant, or protector. Sometimes he is hired to make people disappear. Bad people, roaches. Some call him an assassin. He knows he isn’t one, but can do that job better than the best assassins in the world. Labels don’t bother him. His job is a violent, high-risk one. He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.
Armed forces across the world hire him, as do police forces, national governments, Hollywood stars, and billionaires.
His last assignment had been to retrieve a stolen Russian nuclear warhead.
He had to work with the agency as well as various covert government organizations in Europe, the USA, and Russia, infiltrate a few terrorist cells, and negotiate with the world’s most wanted arms dealers before locating the warhead in a mosque in Detroit. He had then called in the agency, who in turn had called a few WDE (We Don’t Exist) organizations to conduct a dawn raid on the mosque. He was part of the team that went in; it was his finger that pulled the trigger splattering the brains of two members of the cell.
He had flown to New York for his debrief at one of the several anonymous offices maintained or temporarily occupied by various federal agencies.
Andrews was waiting for him in the colorless office. ‘We have something else for you, if you’re interested.’
That was Andrews. Good at small talk.
‘But first things first,’ continued Andrews. ‘Report?’
He wordlessly handed it across. He had worked with Andrews for a long time, could easily read him, and he knew Andrews wasn’t really interested in his report. He would have been thoroughly debriefed by the WDE agents. Andrews was here to stoke his interest in the next assignment, whatever it was. Andrews was a first-rate handler who gave him interesting assignments, and for that he could tolerate his boring games. For a short while.
Andrews finally put the report down, drummed his fingers on the desk, looked at him, then away and then back at him. ‘We might have a problem.’ He paused. ‘In the Congo.’
Andrews waited for his response. Realizing it could be a long wait, he continued. ‘As you know, the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) has a UN Peace Keeping Force (UNPKF), which has not been particularly effective in keeping the peace. In fact, the UNPKF has been accused of not doing enough to keep out rebel troops and of being involved themselves in drug and gold smuggling.’
Andrews waited for a response, got none, and forged ahead. ‘But the UN Force is not what’s troubling us. There are a bunch of military contractors out there, gone to train the DRC’s army. Six of them. The agency has used them in the past but stopped dealing with them. Too brutal. Don’t play by the unwritten rules in our game. They deal with multiple paymasters at the same time, and some of those paymasters are the bad guys. That’s bad with a B. Folks we would terminate. Hence the agency blacklisted them. Now over the past few months there have been whispers of military contractors actively working with the other side, the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda.’
Andrews snorted. ‘Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, aka FDLR. That’s the French name for them. And don’t even ask me why a force for the liberation of Rwanda is active in the DRC, but they are, and are fighting the DRC government troops, who we are backing.’
‘So?’ Zeb prompted.
‘The chatter is that these contractors are not just working with the FDLR, but have gone rogue. Now the fucking thing is we haven’t a clue if these rogue contractors are the ones who went to train the DRC troops. The intel is not the most reliable out there. The agency blacklisted those six, but it would be a political minefield if the rogue contractors turned out to be the six the agency used in the past. China is expanding its presence in Africa, and we want to be seen as the good guys. We want you to go to the DRC, find out who those guys are and what the fuck they’re up to. No action. Just investigate and report.’
‘Nope.’
Andrews waited for an explanation, got none, and did his routine of looking away and back, and drumming his fingers. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. Not challenging enough for you, I expect. Hang on a second — I want you to meet someone,’ he said and slipped out of the room. He came back with the Director.