The Alpha Chronicles (3 page)

Stoke had taken cover behind the trunk of Bishop’s tree. Only ten feet away, Bishop took a chance and whispered, “This isn’t good, Stoke. This isn’t the place for a fight. Can we pull back into the village?”

“You’re bloody right about that, lad. Pass the word, we’re falling back.”

Before anyone could move, another contractor warned, “Movement… grass… east side of the path.”

The news complicated things, as it appeared there were at least two separate threats, each approaching from a different direction.

“Bishop, you and Spider cover our withdrawal – see you in a minute, lads.”

Nine of the contractors rose in unison, the group falling back toward the main cluster of huts and fences. Bishop and Spider remained behind, each man’s head and barrel pivoting, looking for work.

Without warning, a long burst of automatic fire exploded from the grass, the rounds snapping well over the contractor’s heads. Several throats erupted in battle cries, and then a cluster of shadows appeared at the edge of the grass. They charged, screaming, firing, and rushing directly at Bishop’s position.

The safety came off the shotgun without thought. Bishop’s training kicked in, his immediate reaction to pull the trigger held in check until the red dot of his optic centered on the lead man. The scattergun roared, the stock recoiling hard against Bishop’s shoulder. The weapon’s kick moved the barrel to the right, and Bishop didn’t fight it. Another outline of a man appeared behind the dot, and 10 pellets of double-ought buckshot departed the weapon’s barrel at 1375 feet per second.

Spider’s weapon began barking close by, but Bishop sensed it wasn’t firing at his targets. Someone was trying to flank
their position.

A huge ball of white and red flame exited Bishop’s barrel with every shot, the affect providing the attackers with an excellent point of aim. Hunks of tree bark and small geysers of soil warned Bishop that the fire directed at him was becoming more accurate - but there wasn’t time to move. He pumped round after round at the approaching threats, his aim drawn by the optic’s view - flashing muzzles and black on green images advancing toward his position.

His shotgun held seven rounds plus the one in the chamber. In what seemed like a matter of only a few seconds, the weapon locked back empty. Bishop reached for his side arm, but sensed an attacker only a few steps away.

He could make out individual features of the threat, specifically the barrel of the AK47 battle rifle coming to bear. Bishop rolled hard left, his hand trying to grasp the grip of the pistol at his waist. A stream of deadly lead-pills slapped the ground where his body had been a split second before.

The .45 Colt automatic pistol cleared its holster on Bishop’s second roll, the safety flipped off as he extended the weapon toward the attacker. There wasn’t any need for either man to use sites or aim, they were that close.

Both men rushed their shots, both projectiles whizzing harmlessly off into the air of the high plains. Bishop fired a second round and then a third, but his opponent remained standing. Bishop made it to his knees, readying to leap at the foe and puzzled by the seemingly ineffectiveness of his pistol.
Body armor
, rushed into his mind,
the guy must be wearing armor
.

Right as Bishop coiled to leap at his foe, the opponent fell straight over like a stiff plank of wood - the body generating a solid thud as it hit the earth. Shotgun shells began flying from the bandolier into the tube of Bishop’s weapon, the reload slowed by the darkness, shaking hands, and a concerted effort to keep an eye on the grass.

“You okay?” gasped a winded Spider.

“I’m good…
you?”

“Yeah…
but damn that was close. I had five of the fuckers doing the Chinese wave attack over here.”

“Five?
Is that all? Where the fuck were you? I had at least twice that many and was wondering if you’d decided on a nap or some shit. Thanks for the help, buddy.”

“Bullshit on that! I call bullshit! Twice that many, my ass. What did you have…
two?”

The sound of boots stopped the exchange, three members of their team rushing up to help. “’Bout fucking time you guys decided to join in,” Spider snapped. “Were you ladies enjoying a nice picnic back there?”

“Fuck you, Spider. We figured you guys were fighting a couple of stray dogs or maybe shooting at each other by accident.”

Stoke and the rest of the men joined up just as the low groans of a wounded man drifted through the air. When they were confident the attack was over, Stoke positioned some men for security and then began to circuit the battlefield, shining his red flashlight on the bodies that littered the plain. Bishop accompanied the Brit, partly out of morbid curiosity, partly to provide security.

Starting with the victim of Bishop’s pistol, Stoke kicked the AK clear and then rolled the body over with his boot. The crimson beam sought the downed man’s hands first, Stoke being weary of the combatant playing possum and perhaps gripping a hand grenade or sidearm. After finding empty hands, the ray of light traveled up the causality’s chest where two large purple circles of blood indicated the fellow was no longer a threat. When the light reached the face, Bishop inhaled sharply.

The dead attacker was just a kid, no more than 13 or 14 years old. Bishop turned away, his stomach convulsing in painful spasms. Trying not to vomit, he lurched a few steps, half bent at the waist and stumbling badly. Spider moved to his friend’s side and in a firm voice instructed, “Steady there, partner…. Drink some water…. Go on.”

Reaching for the tube connected to Bishop’s camelback, Spider helped with the mouthpiece while steadying his buddy’s wobbly legs. After gulping down a couple of swallows, Spider escorted Bishop to the fallen tree and helped him sit down.

“They’re all kids,” a voice sounded in the distance. “What the fuck is going on here, Stoke?”

Before the leader could respond, one of the sentries yelled, “Shit!” A commotion followed, the sounds of someone grunting, a solid thud, and then “Got him!”

All eyes and a few rifle barrels sought the source of the disturbance, the high blades of grass rustling violently. One of the contractors emerged, half dragging and half carrying a struggling man. Once clear of the vegetation, the large HBR shooter unceremoniously lobbed his cargo into the middle of the gathered contractors. “I found this fucker hiding in the grass over there. He ain’t no kid.”

Flashlight beams illuminated a middle-aged man, his frightened eyes darting around while his hand attempted to shade his eyes. The captive was dressed in a dirty, mud smeared, white dress shirt, khaki slacks and a pair of expensive looking dress shoes. He didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons.

Stoke tilted his head, studying the terrified prisoner. “He’s not our Mr. Ombomtu, that’s for sure.”

Seemingly dismissing the captive as worthless, Stoke half turned away and issued an order to a nearby contractor. “Red, go ahead and kill him. He’s not the guy we’re after. And besides that, he makes me sick, using a bunch of kids as a shield, relegating them to a suicide mission. Make it quick.”

Red cycled his M4, raising the weapon to his shoulder. The captured man screamed, “No! Wait! I know where Ditto is.”

Stoke reached out and touched Red’s rifle, gently pushing the now centered barrel downward. Pivoting abruptly, he took a menacing step and then towered over the terrified man. “Don’t fuck around with me…talk or die.”

“Di...
Di... Ditto is at the lake,” the prisoner stuttered in heavily accented English.

“How many men does he have with him?”

“I’m… I’m not sure. You’ve killed some of his army tonight.”

Bishop jumped up from the log, his eyes full of fury. He grabbed the prisoner by the hair and dragged the protesting man to the closest causality. “That’s not a fucking soldier, asshole. That’s a child. Is that what you call an army?”

Realizing everyone was staring, Bishop shoved the captive to the ground, spit on his back, and then returned to his perch on the log.

Stoke didn’t waste the moment. He bent over the whimpering prisoner and whispered, “You’d better start talking, lad, and talking really fast. I’m not going to be able to control my men much longer.”

The guy looked up at Stoke and then chanced a glance at Bishop. Bishop met the fellow’s gaze with a stare of pure hatred. Never diverting his eyes, Bishop reached to his chest rig and pulled his fighting knife from its scabbard, the moonlight and red torches reflecting an evil hue around the blade.

“Ditto has many more fighters with him. These are his soldiers. Orphans…vagabonds…all his fighters are young like these. All the older men are dead from past wars.”

Stoke pressed, “I thought Ditto was a businessman. Are you saying he’s involved with the government or military? What do you mean by, ‘his soldiers?’”

The man
was clearly confused by the question. “I… I… I’m not sure what the word is. These soldiers work for Ditto. He pays them, like me. Some of his army carries rifles, some work on computers, some in the warehouses. Ditto is a very powerful man with lots of army men.”

Stoke sighed, obviously frustrated by the language barrier and the potential for the mission to
cross unintended boundaries. He stepped closer to Bishop and commented, “Getting our property back from a local businessman is one thing. But we have to be sure we’re not crossing swords with the government or the military. This mission isn’t authorized for that, and I’m sure HBR doesn’t want headlines insinuating the company is executing a coup or whatever else the bloody press wants to spin.”

Bishop nodded toward the cluster of dead attackers. “No army that I know of recruits teenagers, Stoke. They have to be part of Ditto’s security force or private employees.”

“You’re wrong about that, Bishop. Many military organizations in this part of the world use child soldiers. It’s more common than anyone from the West likes to admit.”

Bishop digested his leader’s words for a bit, the look of disgust still painted on his face.

Stoke patted him on the shoulder and added, “I know you’re upset about this, lad. Killing is bad enough, let alone having to kill someone so young. Let me assure you…those ‘children’ would have shot you dead without a second thought. They would have stripped your carcass clean and left it for the dogs to eat. Child warriors have no conscience… no sense of life or death. In some ways that makes them very affective.”

Bishop nodded his thanks to Stoke for the words. While he still wasn’t over the shock, he pulled himself together enough to consider the mission. “You didn’t ask, sir, but I think we need to go to the lake and get
this bullshit over with. Every minute we spend in this shithole makes things worse. That’s my unsolicited input, sir.”

The team leader nodded and turned to face the prisoner again. “How did you know we were here?”

“I don’t know. Ditto has very many friends in very many places. A runner brought news this morning that 11 men had landed in the jungle and were hunting Ditto. He has sent for more soldiers. They will be here tomorrow.”

A sigh of exasperation escaped
Stoke’s throat. The Brit stood, rubbing his chin, clearly in thought. Speaking to no one in particular, “So we’re expected then. Perhaps not such a bad thing, eh, lads?”

After a period of silence, Stoke cleared his throat, a habit that signaled he had reached a decision. He motioned to the closest man watching the prisoner and instructed, “Tie him up…
loose enough so he can get away in a few hours. Leave him one bottle of water. We’ll retrieve him on our way back if he’s still here.”

The column of contractors vacated the settlement, moving toward the dam and leaving an unhappy, bound captive behind. The villagers had evidently traveled to the shores of the mountain lake on a regular basis, as the path was well worn and quite wide. As soon as they were out of visual range of the hamlet, Stoke, Bishop, and Spider dropped out of the formation and cut off into the grasslands.

It was just over two miles to the earthen dam, the anticipated ambush hitting the main column of contractors about halfway between the village and the lake.
Stoke and his two escorts traveled three hundred meters away, keeping on a parallel line with their comrades back on the trail.

The contractors had easily detected the amateurish trap created by
the child-army. Normally, they would have rolled up the flank of the hidden attackers in a matter of minutes. On this early African morning, however, their plan had been to make it seem like they had fallen into the snare.

Three of the largest casualties from the settlement’s skirmish were dressed in spare clothing provided by the HBR operators, the bodies carried along with the main group of men. Stoke had ordered the morbid feint just in case the grass contained curious eyes that were accounting for the living interlopers.

When the AKs started spitting lead at the ambush site, those three corpses had been recycled, abandoned to create a ruse that the attackers’ trap had been effective.

The eight remaining “living contractors” had instructions to keep their foes busy. If
at all possible, they were to pressure the child-soldiers into calling for reinforcements.