The Alpha Chronicles (2 page)

“Welcome back to the Four Seasons South, lads. What have you got for me?” Stoke greeted.

Bishop took a knee, unfolded a plastic map of the area, and pointed. “We found their trail here, sir. I’m sure armed men passed through the area no more than an hour ago. I believe they
are headed up the mountain. The trail ran at 340 degrees magnetic for as far as we could see.”

Stoke rubbed his chin and nodded. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Didn’t our satellite photos show an abandoned village on this side of the mountain?”

Spider cleared his throat and asked, “Do you think they’ve hidden the equipment at the village, Stoke?”

“No lad, I think HBR’s precious trinkets are probably well on their way to some coastal port by now.
They’ll be shipped to a facility where a clever fellow in a lab coat can reverse-engineer our technology. There’s no way we’ll get it back unless we find the mastermind of the heist.”

Bishop folded his map and tucked it into his chest rig. “Stoke, what are the chances this Mr. Ombomtu will give up without a fight? I mean,
it’s not as if the guy is leading a revolution or working for a government. He’s just a greedy businessman from what I can tell.”

Stoke looked Bishop in the eye and then smiled. “Private enterprises are the worst ones, Bishop.
I’d much prefer to tangle with rebels or rogue military units – they’re only motivated by honor or loyalty to a cause. Now a corporation…well…that’s bad news. A company is always the worst enemy to fight. To them, it’s not personal; it’s simply business. Removing emotion from the leadership of any conflict makes it bloodier.”

Bishop was skeptical. “Really? I would have thought religious fanatics would be the worst. Hell, I would have guessed corporations would be the pussies on the grand scale of thug nasty.”

Shaking his head, Stoke rested his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “Think about lawsuits and hostile takeovers, lad. Brutal… absolutely brutal. I’ve read stories about businesses bankrupting themselves, fighting to the death. Money without a conscience is the root of all evil.”

Stoke turned and began rousting the men. “Time to hutch up now, you blokes. We have a job to do, and I’m filly with being damp. Move along now, lads. This isn’t Her Majesty’s Royal Gardening Society.”

Groans, muttered curses, and assorted griping ensued. Spider decided to help and added, “Come on, you lazy fucks. People back home pay a butt-full of money for a trip to the waterpark. Hell, we’ve not only got water, but mud and 20 varieties of poisonous snakes, too! This op’s like a vacation to a health spa and zoo combined. Shit, we’re even blessed with foot-long centipedes.”

Spider’s logic met with some verbal feedback, including one operator grabbing his crotch and taunting, “Hey, Spider! I’ve got yer foot-long… right HERE!”

Stoke ordered the column to move out, Bishop taking his place at the front, off-center to the right, and 100 feet in front of the main body of contractors. Sensing, more than seeing, he knew Spider would keep even with him, but to the left. The formation moved forward like a pitchfork missing its middle prong.

The unit hadn’t traveled more than 50 steps when the rain suddenly stopped. Bishop didn’t realize it at first, the runoff cascading down through the canopy above for several more minutes. Shortly after, the sun shone brightly, lighting the jungle floor through small peepholes of light in the dense vegetation above.

The men’s initial reaction to the change in weather was positive - for about an hour. After days of precipitation, the subtropical sun turned the super-saturated terrain into a steam bath of misery. Waves of moist heat rose from the jungle surface, unwelcome by men burdened by heavy, saturated clothing and humping packs often weighing in excess of 100 pounds.

The suffering
was made worse by their destination, the now-abandoned village requiring a climb of 4,000 feet along the incline of some unnamed mountain. Bishop could think of several names for the hill that was causing his legs to cramp, most of the labels unfit to be printed on any map.

With his shotgun in his left hand and a razor sharp machete swinging from his right, he cut his way through some of the thickest undergrowth he’d ever seen. “This is no place for a boy from West Texas,” he mumbled to himself.  

Bishop peered out from under the jungle foliage at a completely altered landscape. The dense, triple-canopy above had begun thinning as the column gradually worked its way up an ever-steeper incline. As the altitude increased, Bishop noted two distinctive changes. The first was the undergrowth; most of the diminishing plant life now tinted an earthy brown rather than the viscoid entanglement of emerald-green they had struggled through for miles. The second variation was an increased difficulty in catching his breath, the thinner air containing less oxygen.

As if some mighty God had drawn a line on the side of the mountain and dared the vegetation to cross his mark, the jungle suddenly ceased. The tropical bush was replaced by waist-high, mud-colored grass covering the mountain’s slope.

Any drastic change in surroundings dictated a stop. Knowing it would be a few minutes before the main group caught up to his position, Bishop took the opportunity to drop his pack. The relief experienced after removing the heavy kit was practically orgasmic.

Since combat in a jungle environment is often close up and personal, Bishop had selected a 12-gauge, automatic shotgun for the mission. The weapon was devastating within 75 yards, but lost effectiveness at long distance encounters. Scanning the open, prairie-like landscape in front of him, he expected Stoke to reassign him from a scouting role back to the main formation. Wide-open spaces required the point man to have a longer-range weapon. Still, he had packed a few dozen slugs, and they would extend his capabilities if it came to a fight. He decided to use the time to replace the seven rounds of buckshot with a mixed load, every other shell being a one ounce, solid plug of lead. The operators called the process “candy striping.”

Just as he finished reloading, the main body arrived. Stoke took a knee beside Bishop and scanned the open grasslands. “Any movement?”

“No, sir. I’ve not seen any sign of life other than a few birds.”

Nodding, the Brit turned to the men and announced, “We’ll hold up here until dark.
You’ve got two hours. Make the best of it. Red, you’ve got the first watch.”

No one wasted any time dropping packs and removing chest rigs and harnesses. While the team had to stay in thick bush to provide cover, occasional patches of sunlight penetrated the canopy overhead. Bishop had to laugh as he walked by one such island of solar warmth. Four pairs of white, prune-wrinkled feet
protruded into the pool of brightness, the smarter men knowing healthy feet improved their chances of surviving. Bishop wasted no time in joining the foot-drying party.

There was a half moon rising over the African landscape when the scouts moved out. Bishop lagged back, joining the main group, glad to be rid of the responsibility associated with walking point. It was a stressful job in so many ways. Besides being the first guy available for target practice, the scouts were responsible for detecting tripwires, ambushes, and other threats. A higher level of focus and concentration was required to do the job properly, that stress exponentially increasing a man’s mental and physical fatigue.

In the open ground, the two scouts stepped about 150 meters in front of the main cluster of men. While every operator was equipped with night vision, the two point men worked their devices hard, scanning not only the ground immediately in their path, but checking all access points to the formation.

Each shooter was equipped with glow-in-the dark Velcro panels. These small patches could be placed anywhere on a contractor’s load vest or hat. While the night was bright enough for the main body of men to stay together, the scouts utilized the patches so visual contact could be maintained.

As the group progressed down a gentle slope, Bishop could see both of the glowing green patches off in the distance.
The ghost-like visual of two seemingly suspended, green dots was enhanced by a spooky bobbing motion as the point men tread. If the ghoulish specks disappeared, the main group would stop - a signal that something was amiss up ahead. If a scout heard or saw a potential threat, his first move was typically to go prone and thus the patches’ phosphorescence would vanish. He could also cover the glowing cloth with his hands, a signal informing the men behind to be alert.

Three hours later, the point men both disappeared at the same time, but the action
was anticipated. According to the maps and satellite photos, they had arrived at the abandoned village. Stoke gave the hand signals, and the team flattened out to form a skirmish line. The boss then trotted off to the nearest scout to have a look for himself.

Bishop took a knee and waited, the adrenaline of pending action competing with the exhaustion of a long, physically demanding mission. The man to Bishop’s right whispered the order to “Move to the ridge,” which Bishop then repeated to the next in line.

A small rise bordered one side of a cluster of mud huts, partially intact fences, and worn dirt paths. Most of the thatch roofing was missing from the skeleton of support poles rising into the night sky. The place smelled of damp earth, burnt wood, and something even more unexpected… cordite.

Scanning the area with his night vision, it quickly dawned on Bishop that a battle of some sort had taken place here. The green and black image displayed through the scope didn’t provide as much depth perception as normal vision, but the evidence was clear – this place had suffered either an artillery shelling or a mortar attack. Bishop guessed it was the latter.

Circular indentions about four meters in diameter were detectable through the compound, the rows of blast rings running in almost perfectly straight lines. While the impact zones weren’t exactly craters, the vegetation was less dense inside the affected areas. If a structure’s foundation was within a ring, it showed damage. Whoever had attacked this place had showered quite a bit of ordnance into a relatively small area.

The battle damage wasn’t a huge surprise. This part of Africa had known little but conflict and war for decades, and it was likely that any town or city would have experienced some level of violence.

“Fifteen meter spread, straight line for one pass,” sounded the command from Bishop’s right. He again relayed the whispered instructions down the line.

When Stoke stood and began walking into the center of the village, the rest of the team joined him, forming a line with weapons at the ready, and heads pivoting right and left.

The place was completely empty – no sign of current, or even recent occupation.

The team regrouped at the far edge of the settlement, Stoke clearly not happy that their search wasn’t over. The leader unfolded a map on the bare earth, the red lens of his flashlight providing illumination. “Now where the hell would they be going? We are 20 miles from anything remotely resembling civilization. Even if his intent were one of these paltry hamlets, there’s a lot easier route than the one we’ve been on.”

Bishop studied the map and pointed, “Aren’t there any structures or homes around this big lake? Back home, people always settle around water.”

Stoke pulled a handful of reconnaissance photos from his satchel, flipping through several before locating the shoreline. One by one, he studied the images, eventually looking up and shaking his head. “There’s one small structure here at the dam. It appears to be some sort of control building or maintenance shed. The lake
was created 11 years ago by a United Nations project to keep the valley below us from flooding. The UN hoped to foster more agriculture in the region that had been prone to high water each monsoon season. According to one report I read, the project has been pretty successful both in the output of crops and relocation of displaced persons.”

Bishop checked the photo Stoke was holding, trying to get an image of the place in his mind. “Sir, do you think our target headed to that lake?”

Before Stoke could answer, one of the outward facing sentries hissed, “Movement… grass… west side of the path.”

Only a blink of time passed before the contractors were moving, each man taking a position and reading his weapon. Like a well-drilled sports team, each operator seemed
to instinctively sense where he should go. Bishop scurried three steps to a fallen tree, probably a victim of the mortar attack from not so long ago. Going prone behind the cover, his first instinct was to survey the area to verify someone was behind him. The semi-circular perimeter appeared intact.

Scanning to his immediate front with the night vision was the next step. Once he was convinced the threat wasn’t danger-close, he mounted the device in front of the red-dot optic that topped the shotgun. The dot’s tube blocked part of the
NVD’s field of view, but Bishop could still affectively aim and scout using the light amplification technology. 

The main trail twisting from the village to the lake passed immediately in front of Bishop’s position. The worn path
was bordered by waist-high brown grass and the occasional shrub or short tree.
That grass is going to be a problem
, he thought.
It will conceal any threats until they are within a few feet. They can see me, but I can’t see them.