Smoke and Shadow (7 page)

“
Shadow, I know
it
’
s been a few
days since we met, but you
’
ve clearly forgotten the extent to
which I don
’
t give
a fuck, so allow me to reorient you. Fuck you, fuck those little
kids and fuck your bullshit guilty conscience. Those little shits
probably killed their fathers and raped their mothers. Hell, maybe
they killed their mothers and raped their fathers. I don't know and
I don't care, so just do what I paid you to do. I
don
’
t give a fuck
if a few of them die. The ones that live will probably grow up to
burn down villages or blow up markets or whatever the fuck they do
in this backwater shit hole. The job is the job. You do it and then
you shut the fuck up about it, the end.
”

“
This
isn
’
t about what
you want. This is about having professional standards that
don
’
t include
killing kids who got dragged into a war.
”

“
See, this is
exactly what Shaw was talking about. You
’
ve had your head so far up
Baker
’
s ass for so
long that you don
’
t know your place. Well, this is about what I want. I want
what the client wants and the client wants that fucking cache to
disappear. Collateral damage is not a concern
so-
“

“
Have you ever
killed a man, Talbot? Have you ever killed a
child?
”

“
I
can
’
t say that I
have. That
’
s what
we have jarheads like you for. I get to give the orders. You get to
worry about dead babies and shit.
”

“
Fuck you,
Talbot. I
’
m-
“

“
Fuck you Trent.
You are going to go into that camp and take out those weapons. If
you don
’
t, I will
order a drone strike and take out every fucking kid I find. Then I
will make sure everyone from Al-Jazeera to the Washington Post
finds out what you did in Karbala. I will then inform the client of
your status as a financial loss leader and a tactical liability. I
will recommend you be relieved of both your contract and your
protected status in this organization. Then you and your bullshit
guilty conscience can hold each other at night while you wait for
someone to put a bullet in the back of your head. Do you understand
me, marine?
”

Trent shut off
the sat phone. He knew enough about Talbot to believe his threats.
He didn
’
t need to
hear any more. He knew what he had to do to save as many of these
children as possible. He just didn
’
t know if he could save himself as
well.

Trent picked out
the target building through a process of elimination. Several
warehouses along the river were damaged from years of neglect and
sporadic fighting. Holes in the windows, roofs and walls gave him
the ability to peer in through his binoculars. Four structures sat
empty. He couldn
’
t
see into the other five, but three of them were too small to hold
the alleged shipping pallets and one of them seemed too far from
the river. If boats were going to come and haul the materiel away,
it only made sense for them to be hidden in the last remaining
warehouse. Trent based his infiltration plan off this logical
analysis.

Both his
insertion and extraction called for zero contact with the CNDP
force. Sabotage ops avoid enemy contact by definition, but this
assignment represented the worst of both worlds. He
didn
’
t have room
in his moral code to slit the throat of every twelve year old
sentry who might stumble across his path, but the same child might
put a bullet in him without a second thought. He
didn
’
t want to
risk contact by going into the camp, but he knew aborting the
mission meant all the boys would die. He knew his instincts and his
training could handle contact with the child soldiers. He just
didn
’
t know if his
mind could deal with the image of killing someone the same age as
his daughter.

With those thoughts churning in his
head, Shadow crept down the side of the hill towards the southern
edge of the town. He waited until three in the morning to move.
That made it more likely most of the sentries would be asleep and
it coincided with one of the darkest hours of the night.

His low stance
obscured him from anyone roaming through the makeshift streets and
altered his shape so anyone who did catch a glance of him in the
shadows might not recognize his shape as human. He kept his cadence
to a slow, steady pattern to avoid the natural tendency of their
eyes to fixate on sudden movement. His deep blue battle dress
uniform blended into the darkness and the face paint on his head
and face didn
’
t
reflect any ambient light. Shadow wasn
’
t invisible when he reached the edge
of the mining town, but he couldn
’
t be seen or heard by anyone near
him.

The low squat buildings of the
mining town cast broad shadows on the dirt roads weaving between
them. A few naked bulbs hung outside the three buildings Shadow
identified as the command quarters. The rest of the streets were
only lit by faint stars. Trent slipped into the shadows, avoiding
the road and slipping among the discarded creates and industrial
equipment left on the side of the road to rot.

Shadow's eyes scanned in every
direction as he crouched. The electric green glow of the night
vision goggles painted the whole town as an alien landscape. Trent
took in the images with the comfort of an experienced operator, but
he didn't rely on his equipment alone. He didn't just focus on what
he could see. His ears took in the hum of distant machinery and the
buzzing of the insects. He took note of the scents floating into
his nostrils, trying to detect anything beyond the smell of grease,
dirt and brine pervading the camp. He attuned all his senses to
detect threats that might be anywhere.

His first contact with the CNDP
came with the acidic sharp smell of urine. Trent froze behind a
large metal crate. The rude splash of a hasty stream rained down a
few feet away from him. A guard relieved himself just around the
corner. He might have only been a few feet from Trent's hiding
place. A dark trail of piss pooled around the corner and under the
toe of his boot.

Trent hid close enough to hear the
boy pull up his zipper. If he came around the corner, Trent
wouldn't have time to access a weapon. He decided to drag the man
or boy into the shadows, smother him and break his neck if he came
any closer. But he didn't. Trent listened as footsteps hurried
away. The feet hit the road with a speed and a weight of a child.
Trent wondered if the boy had sensed something dangerous in the
shadows or if he just lived his whole life running away from
danger. Trent continued towards the warehouse, careful to make sure
he didn't leave wet footprints as he moved.

A burst of nervous laughter pushed
Trent down into a prone position. The sound repeated, coming from
Trent's left. He angled his head towards the noise in slow motion.
He wanted to see the laughter, but he didn't want to create a
sudden movement and draw attention to himself.

They stood at his ten o'clock next
to one of the command houses. Two boys wearing nothing but sandals,
shorts and AK-47 assault rifles smoked cigarettes under the faint
light of a naked bulb. Trent stayed down on his stomach and leaned
into a slow log roll underneath a transport truck away from the
boys. He didn't want to disturb the commander or his personal
guard. He'd let the C4 wake them up.

It only took ten more tense but
uneventful minutes to sneak around to the rear of the warehouse. He
had to pass the front door to reach the rear window, but using the
front door created potential problems. He didn't know if they
locked the door or what kind of lock they might have used. He
didn't have a lot of skill picking locks and he certainly couldn't
open a lock in the dark. He couldn't just go up to the door and
hope for the best. He felt better about using the window, although
it could have an alarm.

Trent didn't think the door or
windows were protected by electronics. He didn't see any indication
of alarms during the day he spent watching the CNDF camp. But even
if the only valuable thing in this place sat in an opened and
un-alarmed warehouse, the rickety front door and rusted rolling
gate still might make enough noise to wake the dead if he tried to
open it.

All those variables made the window
a better option, until Trent turned the corner and almost ran into
a wandering guard.

The boy staggered through the
darkness mumbling something in a language Trent didn't understand.
He walked away from Trent with his rifle resting across his
shoulder blades like the horizontal bar of a crucifix. His head
hung low and the mumbling might have been a prayer. Maybe Trent
found the boy asking God for deliverance or rescue or just release
from the torment he suffered every day. Trent curled his fingers
around the handle of his Zero Tolerance knife and released the
safety clasp holding the blade on his leg. If this boy turned
around, Trent would slit his throat and make sure he never suffered
again.

The boy turned the corner of the
warehouse, continuing his self-centered discourse without a
backward glance. Trent watched him from the darkness to make sure
he didn't double back and then raced for the window. The boys often
wandered in the same patterns and Trent didn't want to push his
luck by sticking around and waiting for him to come back. A quick
low peek into the warehouse window didn't reveal any guards inside
the building. A cursory examination of the frame confirmed there
was no alarm. A gentle nudge on the window allowed him to open it.
After one last glance around his position, Trent lifted himself up
and through the warehouse window.

Trent's nightmare began with a
delicate breeze on his back.

He circled the shipping containers
with cautious, silent steps. He held a SIG P226 in a low ready
position, scanning the room for opposition and opportunities. Trent
needed to determine the best place to plant the charges, but he had
to make sure he was alone first. When he didn't find any guards in
the warehouse, Trent holstered his weapon, pulled an infrared
flashlight from his pocket and prepared the first C4 charge for
detonation.

Three shipping containers dominated
the room, each one of them large enough to fit a Mack truck. The
faded paint on the containers gave the impression of age. Trent
noticed the logo on the side said Executive Outcomes. The South
African mercenary company folded a few years back, but it looked
like their equipment kept on fighting the wars its owners had long
since abandoned. Trent imagined crates of rifles, ammo and rocket
propelled grenades. Trent tried not to think of the women and old
people who might be cut down by these arms. He tried not to focus
on the young boys who might be forced to use them.

Trent worked in
semi-darkness, with the penlight in his teeth, attaching the M112
demolition blocks of C-4 Tolbert provided to the sides of each
container with the convenient adhesive tape on the outside of the
clay like block. He chose strategic points on the inner and outer
perimeter of the containers and inserted a detonator into the
center of each block. If everything went according to plan, the
initial blasts would vaporize both the containers and the weapons
in them. The secondary wave of energy from the return of expelled
gasses might be enough to destroy the entire building. Trent only
had eight blocks to put in place. He couldn
’
t have been in the warehouse for
more than five minutes.

His only warning of disaster came
from the breeze. Trent felt it on his back as he placed the second
charge. He crouched at the base of the container with his back to
the door of the warehouse, the door he avoided for his own entry.
He didn't hear the opening of a lock. The guards must have left the
door open. He didn't hear rusted hinges or the scrape of the door
against the dirt and gravel road. Maybe the boys greased the door
so the commanders wouldn't hear them sneak inside. Trent would
never know. He didn't see the door opening and he didn't hear it,
but he felt a breeze where no breeze should be. His awareness saved
his life.

Trent glanced over his shoulder and
came face to face with his fears. A boy, no more than thirteen
stepped through the doorway and saw Trent holding the C4 in his
hands and the penlight in his teeth. Trent didn't have the time or
the avenue to duck into the shadows. For a fleeting moment that
lasted a lifetime, a black boy and a black man stared at each other
across a distance of twenty feet separating them by hundreds of
violent years.