Juba, South Sudan
The day-time heat poured off of the hood of the Cadillac as it drove through the capital of Africa's youngest nation of twenty-nine years. The war and strife that had afflicted the African country had been hidden well here over the years. The frequent internal conflicts that had embroiled the country until the twenties seemed long forgotten here. Programs to develop the nation's national capital and the capital gained from the nation's northern oil wells had helped the young state's coffers. And driving through the silver jewel on the White Nile it was easy to forget than in the life-time of Pierre Lofaine the city had come up from being little more than rural huts in the heart of the Sudanese bush to being a metropolis that looked, felt, and tried to be a symbol of progress in the developing world.
The men and women that mingled along the street alongside jalopy, thirty-year old Toyotas carried themselves through the paved streets of Juba, not caring or seeming to not register the fact that thirty years ago they would not be worrying about the trivial aspects of urban living as there was in traffic. They paid no heed to the profound circumstances that allowed their infant state to beat such favorites as Rome or London for the World Cup. But then again, The War had seen to their memories.
Refugee migrations and the fear of a second wash of civil unrest had managed to subdue anger and cries of corruption that lead to Juba being put on the world stage. The demands that the money that made this spectacle possible could be better spent developing the nation's still non-existent electrical network and weak roads. Years of Ethiopian refugees and soldiers returning to the street had buried it all as western armies clashed with Chinese interests across the continent. The Sudans weren't alone either, as the two briefly clashed over the border. But in the end, things turned out alright to the citizenry. The Arab north had been pushed back, and they cemented their claim on Sudanese oil. The black suits settled on their new wealth with fat smiles and flabby asses to increase the size of their bank roll. Internal investment promised and showed growth as budget cuts privatized most of the nation's security forces and police. Western experts imported in to oversee the continuing growth and work with the president to see Sudan meet its full potential as a fertile agricultural state.
Pierre didn't need to look or think hard to still find the exorbitant corruption that afflicted Sudan. But he couldn't complain, it gave his company a job.
Pierre Lofaine grumbled as he turned from the window. The old thatch and brick huts of old Juba had disappeared under carefully prepared plaster facades in the down-town district. Decoratively planted trees rose from the side-walk, giving the district a distinct tropical home-away from home appearance. And between shops, hotels, and the bars rose the glittering silver of casinos and their cheekily hidden brothels. Even by day these glowed.
But for all the changes in the recent decades, nothing could solve the persistent problem of traffic in Africa. Despite modernizing some elements had lagged behind or simply refused to move. Foot traffic mixed with automobiles and animal-drawn carts as dogs ran between it all. Destitute men with skin as dark as the night wove through the cars, washing windows and begging for change.
A dull pain throbbed through Pierre's arm from where his prosthetic met with his elbow. The coarse irritation of a poorly fitted socket and the painful itching sensation of it beginning to rub against him. The sensation of having lost his arm in The War hadn't left him either, and even with the shining red implant he still felt something was missing on the fields in Germany. It kept him up at night sometimes when he felt that his arm was somewhere it wasn't.
The arm met his body at a plastic cup just above his elbow. The flesh swelled underneath. He was told the fit would be tight, perfect. Just enough that he wouldn't need to worry about the powerful discomfort of a poorly fitted arm. But now his arm glowed the same fierce red his arm was stained and polished in. He ran his fingers up and down around where his implant met his skin, hoping to soothe the pain and kill it. It wasn't much, but it was the least he could do as his metal fingers tapped across his knee.
Pierre's attention drifted from the traffic jammed streets outside to the front of the Escalade. It was cooler inside than it was outside, and the softly glowing screen in the dash was evidence to that. It was a soothing hundred degrees outside. Inside, a cool and comfortable sixty-nine. The Chevrolet logo glowed over top at the crown of the dash as soft melancholy classical music sung through the cabin.
At his side pair of armed guards sat impatiently tapping their knees or staring out of the window as the driver and front passenger glowered angry at the back up of mule-drawn carts and a battered, chipped and faded 2011 Toyota Tacoma sat idling in front of them. The sides were spray painted in weak Ethiopian colors that weakly hid bullet holes across its side. A frame of iron bars in its bed, built right behind the rear window suggested that in a worse time, someone had mounted a gun to it. There wasn't much else to it. It had the scars of war, just like Pierre and his men.
With a jolt the Escalade shifted forward, and traffic was again moving along the streets of Juba. At a impatient crawl they crept through the streets of Juba to their final destination. “Ist Langsam.” cheered the passenger from the front as he clapped his hands together.
****
The Escalade bumped and jostled as it turned off the road and drove down a desolate stretch of road in the heart of town. Grass yard and grassy knolls passed them by on either side as they drove down a stretch of decorated road way. Towering palm trees marched along the drive like towering sentinels as native, black-skinned workers worked around their bases, replacing old mulch at their trunks, tending to weeds, or repairing neglected electrical lights.
The drive was smooth, and at the end stood like a nest of steel and iron was their destination. Built as some convoluted representation of ancient tribal huts, the Juba International Stadium was South Sudan's prize of corruption. Built to impress for the World Cup, Pierre found it did little on him. The gaudy tiers built into it and the artificial stucco that turned steel to wood was something more out of a Disney attraction than real life. Shoddily crafted roof work ensured that the lowest tiers of the building looked to be half as real as a tribal hut's thatched roof. And all of it was crowned with an open nest of high-beam lights, cables, flags, and banners.
Scaffolding only made its outward appearance worse. Over ten years of disuse since the World Cup was delayed had done enough that demanded that the government minders that built the clusterfuck look into repairs. It had been mothballed for over a decade as the war tore itself apart. It had briefly been used as a command center for Western Alliance personnel against Chinese insurgency. And Pierre reckoned that it had been used for everything but soccer.
But it's big chance was coming up. It'd been delayed for this long. The mercenary commander's chariot pulled alongside the sports palace. In little under a month this stadium would be making the news again.
Pierre looked out at the expansive open parking lot and shuttle terminal that wrapped around the building. Slowing to a halt the bulky car passed into the shade of the lobby terminal's awning. Where there stood a congregation of suits and ties, and uniforms. With a soft jaunt the Escalade stopped solid on the tarmac and idled as the doors popped open.
“Good afternoon, commander Pierre!” a voice sang out in a proud sing-song voice. Pierre rolled his eyes as he pulled himself from the car. Spending a brief moment to look out down the drive for far longer. There was an abrasiveness to the tone of voice that got to him. The way it held a tone far happier than it needed to be.
Taking a deep sign Pierre turned to the speaker. Standing at the head of the armed guards and South Sudanese officials stood a tall white man at stiff attention. A still hand hovered at his sharp stone-trimmed brow in salute and darkened sunglasses. And despite the straight cut and rigid posture a proud beaming smile dressed him.
“Colonel Adam.” Pierre said, waving a hand at him, putting him at ease. For Pierre he found a surreal difficulty in working with Americans. Not that they were any worse at what they did than anyone, but for him they talked too much. Were too polite. Something that Colonel Adam was all to sure to express on any given meeting he had with him.
“Fancy a tour of the facility, sir?” Adam asked, lowering his hand to his waist.
“It's why I'm here.” the Frenchman said with a false smile.
“Excellent.” Adam crooned, stepping aside as his boss joined him and the various presidential aids and ASN guards men.
****
The air inside the Juba stadium was dry, but at least cool. All around them the sounds of work echoed in the open halls and causeways of the stadium as repair crews set to diligently address the number of issues that had arisen with the de-mothballing of the stadium. Holes needed to be patched. Light bulbs checked, and faulty wiring redone. The floors needed to be cleaned and new security systems installed. And the television screens that were outdated for even their time needed to be replaced or checked for any failure that had come upon them over time.
All around them the workmen of Juba was hard at work at their jobs. Tell tail light-blue helmets singled them out from the ASN security personnel who were fast at work installing their own security devices, or drilling a few of Juba's native police officers in how to use their security cameras. Several small news outlets stood by, speaking in a wide range of tongues in scattered carefully picked locations as they gave out a rundown on the preparations for the coming World Cup.
“We're well on track for Juba.” Adams said with a beaming smile, “Really, I'd say we're ahead of schedule, on our end at least. These private contractors seem like they keep finding something to address and don't ever get anything done. But that's beyond my own authority.” he laughed.
“I can tell.” Pierre said distantly, stepping around a step ladder. At the top a Grey-suited technician fitted a wireless security camera to the side of a support beam.
The entire entrance lobby stretched up some two to three stories, and every available part of the vertical space was filled – or set aside – to proclaim South Sudan's growth and to paint a picture of growth in Africa, much the same as South Africa decades ago.
“We're really just worried on staff allocation throughout the compound.” the colonel continued, “We got a lot of space to cover, and last I checked my X-ray scanners are still waiting in Isreal, but I was told in my last Email with our logistical office they'll be down whenever I need them. I frankly just need to get the staff to operate them and do regular patrols.”
“What about the locals?” Pierre asked.
“They're fine, but I wouldn't want to use them for major things like that. I might request to have them on the floor as a presence, but I wouldn't put them at scanners. Frankly, possible loyalties concern me.”
“So it really sounds like we're not ahead of schedule.” Pierre commented with a frown.
“Wel- well in terms of hardware!” Adam laughed, “But man power, maybe you can help out? I don't want to run minimum here. This is too big a thing. Locals would help, but there's still a lot of Ethiopians in the city and just as much in the force. And both of us no doubt got the NGO memos post war, even local criminal statistics.”
“I hope you're not implying that our police force is corrupted, Mr Hetman.” one of the local representatives said. A tinge of deeply felt offense wavered in his deep voice.
“Not at all sir.” the colonel apologized, “But, I want to take precautions is all.”
“Precautions or not Mr. Hetman I will not of our local dignity cut out of this chance of a life-time on baseless assumptions on our men!” the same man argued. The local police commissioner. As the party stopped Pierre turned to watch the altercation. Juba's commissioner was a large man, even by large man standards. He dwarfed Adam in both height and width and his bald head was incredibly sharkish for a man.
“Monsieur Indiga,” Pierre responded, “rest assured I have no intention of cutting your men out of this chance. But for an event this large and with things unresolved in Africa, it's sensible to take precautions on such a matter. I know things have been pacified in part in Sudan. But we still got an active network that has proven destructive.
“I do not doubt the loyalty of your men and their capability. But right now, let us keep an open mind for all factors, so we don't invite tragedy. Oui?”
Pierre's sharp confrontation appeared to silence the commissioner as he waddled on his hippopotamus sized feet. “I am merely defending my men.” he apologized. His tongue was still bitter and the delivery stiff and angry. But Pierre took it.
“I'll look into the manpower shortfalls.” he said, turning back to Adam, “I'll be in Tel-Aviv at the end of the week and I'll bring it up with the board. I was going to request an update on our recruitment efforts so I will look into sending you men on the rotation to cover your needs for something of this scale.”
“Thank you sir.” Adam nodded, grinning widely, “It'd mean a lot to me. Air cover to if possible. Just for presence purposes if anything.”
“I'll look into it.” Pierre said, “Now, what more do I need to know?”
Mbandaka, Congo
The clock in the distant corner of the room ticked away the silence in the room. It was a simple sound, but so irritating. And it only hammered home the surreal alien nature of the office. Where everything was built of the same cheap supplies and pre-fabrication this room had a strange sort of feeling. A distant reflection of another land. From the looks of the office space, there was a cleanliness to it. Care. Dark, stained wainscotting ran a wide stroke along the bottom edge, standing as tall as the fine hard-wood tables that rested along it. Faded birds decorated the off-white wallpaper as they ran to meet a ceiling of dimpled stucco. From the ceiling hung a wide fan.
Of all the things in the town of Mbandaka, this had to look the most European with its bookshelves packed full of books. The only thing that stood in the room that reminded any visitors it was Africa was the window. The faded yellow and stained window. Set high on the wall it let in a faint yellow glow.
“Carlos Ortemega.” someone said from behind as a door opened. Accented, European. Almost Germanic. Seated in a basic metal-frame chair in the center of the office sat Caramel. He rung his fingers over his knees, partially out of impatience and partially over annoyance over the inconvenience.
“I hear you gave my psychiatrists shit earlier this morning.” the man at the door said, laughing. He was a tall and well built man. Skinny, but there was a proportion to it. He was a man with a long rounded face, with the slight suggestion of sagging cheeks and deepening wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hair glowed a bright golden yellow as it receded back across his head.
The man took to a brisk pace as he crossed the room. His gait wide and bounding. The natural speed at which he moved from door to desk somewhere between that of a run and a jog.
“Doctor Lieughen?” Caramel asked apprehensive.
Lieughen looked up at Caramel as he took a seat behind his desk. “Ja!” he said with a smile, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Alright, well if you don't mind I'd like to ask to go back to base...” Caramel started nervously. His voice wavered with uncertainty as he shifted in his chair.
“Your last appointment with an ASN psychiatrist was your preliminary employment examination ten months ago.” Lieughen said, cutting him off and giving no merciful answer. At his desk he unfolded a small folder, no doubt containing Caramel's psychiatric and medical files. The doctor reached into his pocket, producing a pair of glasses he unfolded and rested on his nose.
“General ASN procedure towards combat vets with a history is to designate a minimum tri-weekly regimen of meetings with the central or designated operations psychiatric evaluator.
“We have not had one scheduled appointment from you in eight months, Da heer Carlos. Why is that?”
“Because...” Caramel trailed off apprehensively.
“The copies of my medical report says that you told the evaluating body you 'would call' to schedule an appointment.
“Of course, the initial suggestion on your character suggests that at the time you didn't require a strict regimen to help you in your psychiatric help. The only warning I got is distancing and disassociation to your area of deployment: Panama.”
“Why is this relevant?” Caramel asked. He felt tight in the chest the infant stirrings of anger turned in him.
“There are reasons.” Lieughen said in a low grumbling voice, “Do you happen to remember the motto of the ASN, Carlos?”
“Why?” Caramel responded.
“Because it matters.” Lieughen said, “And I hope you don't we're going straight to the point, brother.”
“I- what?” Caramel confusedly muttered, “I- well it's about family...” he stumbled. This fucking doctor. What could he be getting at? Why does it matter?
“Please say it.” Lieughen said, holding his hand out invitingly.
Caramel sighed as he threw his head back. Did this fucking matter? Drumming his feet against the floor he said in a long drawn, impatient tone, “Together we are family.”
“Very good!” Lieughen complimented. A genuine smile glowed on his face, and he relaxed his posture, leaning on his arms. “As family of course, it's our duty to support one another. Da heer Ortemega, we're all here to support you. From within, and without your squad.”
“What does my squad have anything to do this?” Caramel grumbled. He could be somewhere else. Doing something else. Why did it even matter to be here? His chest felt like it was filling with plasma. Boiling and expanding. But looking at the doctor's smug expression, that smile and glow in his yellow eyes... He was toying with him. It had to be that.
“A lot.” Lieughen said distantly, nostalgically. “They are to you as your brothers and sisters back home were to you before you went to service. It's the duty of all of us to care for and nurture each other and to help us through troubles. A lot of us are troubled, Carlos. We all faced the world.”
“You know, it doesn't even fucking matter, Ok!” Carlos shouted, rising from his chair, “If this is about my fucking tour in Panama, then it doesn't matter! I left that shit behind!
“Do you see a fucking pistole to my head right now!?” he roared like a lion as he took a step on Lieughen. His face growed red and the fires of Hell were erupting in him. “I- I'm not going crazy doctor!”
“Carlos, would you kindly sit down. Please?” Lieughen asked gently.
“Can I go!?” Caramel shouted. Throwing his arm to the door.
“Only until I'm satisfied.” Lieughen replied.
“With what? What do you want!?” Caramel snapped back, kicking his boot against the ground. To Lieughen the soldier was quickly becoming like that of an immature child. He beamed with agitation. It was clear that he was getting fed up.
“Things, brother Carlos.” he said with a distraught sigh, “Now, if you sit down we can go over things. Because I'm not going to let you go until I'm satisfied. And you can tear this office apart from ceiling to floor, but that will just get you the stockade. And trust me, brother. It's a lot worse there.”
Caramel threw up his arms. And with a loud thud threw himself down in the chair, crossing his arms.
“Fine.” Lieughen nodded, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. Picking up the evaluation report he leaned back in his chair, “Let's start then with your service record. Served in the Honduras armed forces? In the reserve?”
“Yes.” Caramel replied.
“And with the Central American task force you fought in Colombia and Panama in 2032? This says you were only sixteen. Can you confirm?”
“I did.” Carlos said distantly.
“Through your service, you went through four squad changes. Most being killed in service and merging into new battalions?” Lieughen asked.
“Yes.” the Latino said. Reapproaching his service drew a dark cloud on him. He felt colder, distant from reality. The smells of those rotting fields crawled back. It was almost like his nightmares...
“Then I take it at any time you likely did not come to feel close with your comrades then?” Lieughen asked.
Carlos went silent as he starred down at his boots. He tapped his toes together, frowning sourly down at them. He wanted to forget. He needed to forget. But it couldn't ever go away.
“Did you?” Lieughen asked again, in a soft voice. He stared into the distant look in Carlos' eyes as he stared down at his combat boots. He felt worry. He knew it felt best for him to ignore it. But it was better in the long run to confront it. To not do so is a disease. It'll curse them all.
“No. Not at all.” Caramel said sourly.
“Then you haven't confided in anyone about this.” said Lieughen, “No one who would understand, or would life long enough for the trust?”
Caramel looked up at Lieughen. He looked vacantly at him. And hungrily. A Golum of mixed spite and shaken remorse. It would have been expected if at the moment he started talking to himself. But when he spoke it was directed to the doctor, “Do you?”
“More than you know.” Lieughen nodded. With a hand he pointed up to along the wall, where a circle of photographs, paintings, or framed letters hung. Caramel noted that three of his fingers on his left hand had been replaced with prosthetic implants, boney, sinewy implants. They looked like what the Terminator's hand resembled. Caramel recalled he didn't think he'd see the day when he first say that movie so many years ago... Like a life time.
“I was a serviceman in the Dutch army.” he said, “Combat medic in that, and then in the UN and various NGO groups before returning to Dutch service.” Lieughen said softly, “I can tell you a lot about the hurt I've seen. I have perhaps seen as much suffering as brother Pierre.”
“Well congratulations...” Caramel muttered, trailing off. “But have you seen it in Central America?”
Lieughen smiled, like a comforting father. Shaking his head he said: “I'm afraid not.”
“Then how would you understand?” Caramel asked.
“Because it will.” Lieughen smiled, “I realize this may not be something you want. But I need you to confront what happened for me. I will with you too, if you promise we maintain the appointments. You won't need to see my underlings, and I can give a medical notice to keep you off of nonessential missions. If it will help.”
Caramel sat silently, playing with his thumbs. Biting his lip he looked up at Lieughen and up at the artifacts of his career. There was many. He felt like a mess. Scared. “An- and the nightmares?” he asked.
“I know.” Lieughen replied.
Kampala, Uganda
Even at night, the ASN offices in Kampala were open. At least to those that wanted it to be. The sight of the two visitors stirred the janitor as he mopped the day's dust from the floor of the building. Looking up in shocked amazement that at one in the morning men would still be using the building. No words passed between him and the white and black man that entered through the lobby. But it was doubtful that the old man would be able to hear anything they said with the Goodlyfe Crew being piped into his ears from the pale, worn ear buds that hang from his shirt.
Emmanuel and John both stepped into the elevator; those last to leave had kindly left the elevators to rest on the first floor. And with a soft sigh the nickle-plated doors closed behind them and they began their ascent up.
“What do you thing 'e wants us for?” John asked as he leaned against the far corner. Drumming his knuckles against the false-wood siding.
“I dun'kno.” Emmanuel said. The buzz of the waragi still swam in his head. But not enough so to drown the doubts he was sober enough to meet with colonel Hasch.
“Infiltrate the police?” John laughed, “That was fun.”
“Say you.” Emmanuel grumbled.
“Admit it, you thought it was enjoyable when you caught on to the fun shit they were on to.” John giggled, “And the way you ran out of that office with the chief with a club over his head. It was the life of the month.”
“I'll chase you wid'a club ne'st d'ime. How'd d'hat be?” Emmanuel snickered.
“That would be your treat, wouldn't it?” John laughed.
With a light ding the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, letting them out into the dimly lit hallways beyond. Nearly half the lights in the build had been turned off, giving only the most basic illumination. The office décor and signage faded into the shadows and the long halls took on a very monotonous look. They all became the same in the half-light. But the two knew the offices like the back of their hand and it wasn't long until they came to the doors to Hasch's quarter of the building.
Opening the doors and entering into the command waiting room they were greeted by the still sparse life that occupied the building. Reclining in a chair and watching a fuzzy television screen stood at guard a pair of guards. They looked tired, and bored.
The man at the desk gazed slowly over to the two guests. With a distant expression he asked: “Meeting with the colonel?”
“Yessir.” Emmanuel nodded.
The desk sergeant nodded, “You know where he is then, you two.” he grumbled. Looking back at the TV.
As the two started for the hall the man at the asked: “Is it still raining outside?”
“It's cloudy.” John said.
“Perfect...” the receptionist sneered.
****
The door closed behind them as they entered into Till's office. There was a lonely silence about it. Something almost meditative. A large window spanned the far wall between shelves of military paraphernalia. And in the corner of it gazing out at the lights of night-time Kampala stood Till Hasch. The white elephant of man stood proud with his arms cross behind his back.
“Colonel, sir?” John said, approaching Till.
The German turned about, clapping his boots about as he did. With a flat uncompromising look he looked over John and Emmanuel before nodding. “Bruden.” he said, “I've got a job fer the two of you.” he added, “Vill you take it?”
“Certainly.” John said.
“Gut, gut.” he smiled, “It'll be no doubt easy for the both you. I need some'vone put under surfeilence, und I can't trust die local police. They refuse to coordinate.”
“Sounds like'd be righ'd up o'r alley.” Emmanuel smiled, “Id's no'd enouthe' police office is it?” he asked, frowning.
“Nein, nein!” Hasch laughed, breaking his tense official posture and holding his arms out. “Though I do remember die debrief. I vish I vas there.” he said laughing.
“You should 'ave!” cheered John, to Emmanuel's distaste.
“To business.” Hasch said, “vhat do you know ofv Jean-Marie William Monbuka?”
“I 'ain't eve' 'eard that name before.” John said. Emmanuel nodded his head in agreement.
“I see. Vell, I hafve reason to believe that he may be ein suspect in an investigation on die remaining Chinese insurgencies.” he said, “Du remember die Ugandan Popular Army?” he asked.
“Yeah, d'ey weren'd d'had popular if e'rembmer...” Emmanuel said, “Mo'e 'dribals from Rwanda looking' d' s'dard d'rouble.”
Hasch nodded, “Jean-Marie claims he left die country during the insurgency. But vhen I look fur confirmation I can't find it. Und he's leading a growing armed group in Southern Uganda that I don't like. I need him looked into.”
“For how long?” John asked.
“At least until a couple months.” the colonel said, “However long it take fur du zwei to get intel on them. Profve he is legitemate or not.”
John nodded, “Well that doesn't sound too hard.”
“Fur men ofv your talents it should not.” he replied smiling, “I hafve great trust in you, that you will not fail me. You know the procedures?”
“Ye'.” said Emmanuel.
Hasch nodded, “I'll hafve someone drive you down to his area, eleven hundred hours.” he said, “You can read our brief on him on the vay. I vanted to tell you to pass this onto you.
“So good luck, und got bless.”
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