“That hasn’t changed since we were stationed here,” Mojombo said. “No security at all. Not even a good try. Swing past the motor pool. We need a second truck. Two men will drop off the tailgate and negotiate with the guard on duty for a six-by-six.”
“So far, so good, Captain,” Gabu said. “We’ll have supplies to keep us rolling for six months.”
“Let’s hope we can get our revolution going long before that, Gabu. It all depends on how much the people of our country support us, and help supply us. We have a lot of work to do yet.”
The truck stopped at the motor pool, and two men in cammies and with sub guns dropped off the truck, which moved away to Building 426, marked “Supply Depot.”
Gabu backed the truck up to a side door, and Mojombo and two men went to the front door. The guard saluted when he saw the captain’s bars on Mojombo’s shoulders.
“I’m here to see the officer in charge,” Mojombo said.
The guard frowned. “Sorry, sir, he isn’t here tonight. He reports to duty at 0800.”
“Soldier, I’m on a special night-training exercise and I need to pick up supplies for the troops. I guess you’ll have to sign the order form.”
“Not allowed to do that, sir.” The soldier had just got the words out when one of Mojombo’s men stepped in behind him, caught his hair, and pulled his head back, then slit his throat from one carotid artery to the other. The soldier’s eyes went wide, his voice coming out in a whisper as rich red blood spurted four feet into the air from both carotids with every beat of his heart.
The soldier dropped his rifle and put his hands up to his throat trying to hold in the blood. He slumped to the ground as the vital blood supply to his brain dropped lower and lower. He would be dead in a minute and a half, Mojombo knew. They dragged the body into some shadows and slid inside the unlocked front door. One man ran to the loading dock area and lifted the truck door. There were now two trucks at the dock waiting for supplies. Ten men stormed inside and went to selected sections of the huge warehouse where they picked out the designated supplies. Mostly they took dozens of cases of canned and packaged food, sacks and boxes of sugar, flour, cornmeal, and other staples.
In another section they found submachine guns and ammo. They piled them in boxes and took loads of RPGs, flares, armloads of uniforms, boots, and another case of handheld radios.
“Let’s move,” Mojombo shouted. “We could have company at any time.”
A minute later a jeep rounded the corner of the huge warehouse, its lights picking up the truck at the loading dock. Mojombo walked out to the front of the truck and waited for the jeep. It stopped a dozen feet away and a man stepped out. He wore the dress uniform of an officer in the Sierra Bijimi Army. He walked up and saluted smartly.
“Sir, Officer of the Guard on rounds. I don’t recall any orders for loading trucks tonight.”
“At ease, Lieutenant. Special orders on a night-training exercise. It has to be realistic or training is no good. We load here, drive to another warehouse, get it checked out by the umpire on duty there, and then drive it back here and unload. From a practical standpoint it’s absolutely useless, but then it’s training.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll need your unit number and name for my report.”
Mojombo saw one of his men approach the jeep from the driver’s side. Mojombo drew his 9mm Glock from his holster and shot the officer twice in the chest before the man sensed any danger. Two more rounds sounded at the jeep, and the driver crumpled over the wheel.
The men were finished at the trucks. They pulled the canvas down over the backs and the rest of the men jumped on board.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mojombo said, and stepped into the cab of the first truck. At the south gate, the guard flagged them down.
“Been a little trouble on base, sir,” the guard said. “I’ll need to see your transit papers and orders.”
Gabu shot the guard twice in the throat, and stormed the truck out the gate and down the road. The second truck followed closely behind them.
Mojombo looked at his watch in the truck’s faint dash lights. “Almost three A.M. Time we head for the river. No chance that we can get to the President tonight. Maybe on the next trip.”
“A good night’s work,” Gabu said.
“Yes, we did well.”
Gabu looked at the blackness of the roadway. They were outside the town now and well into the countryside. There was only one road north, so they had to take it. “We expecting any trouble up the road?” Gabu asked.
“Probably. We didn’t cut any telephone wires. Somebody will report our raid. They know we always go north.”
“Probably around Tambacounda. They still have an Army post there?”
“They’ve rebuilt it since we burned it down a month ago,” Mojombo said. “Yes, my guess is they’ll have every man on the post out to the road to stop us. They for sure will get a telephone warning.”
“So how do we surprise them?” Gabu asked.
“They know we’ll be coming in by truck. So, we stop a half mile from their roadblock and take them on the ground. We get behind them if we can so they won’t have any protection, and we take them out. Then we can clean out their supply room as well and be gone.”
Gabu smiled. “How about my taking half the men to go around them and hit them from behind while you’re engaging them from the front?”
“Yes, Gabu, yes. How much farther to Tambacounda?”
The driver checked out the window. “Maybe six or seven miles.”
Mojombo settled back in the seat, his submachine gun over his knees. Yes, he remembered the small village well. Maybe three hundred souls. Extremely poor. Only one road through the town. At this side the road went over a small river. The attack would come at the bridge. Yes. They would stop a mile from the bridge and advance on foot, half on each side of the road.
Twenty minutes later the cammy-clad men with their submachine guns and AK-47’s moved cautiously up the road toward the bridge. When they were a half mile away, they angled into the light brush and trees at the side of the blacktopped road and moved slower. A scout out in front came back quickly.
“Yes, there are soldiers at the bridge. On both sides of the road.”
Mojombo nodded. Soon he and his men would have the radios operating and would be able to coordinate their efforts better. He sent a runner to the other side and told Gabu to continue. They would both attack when fifty yards away. A call of the nighthawk would be the signal to open fire. Mojombo had heard about night-vision goggles. He wished he had some. Then he could see where to shoot.
They moved up slower now. Soon their scout dropped down, and the rest of them went to ground. He crawled back. “I can see them. Most of them are smoking and talking. Maybe ten or fifteen on this side.”
Mojombo thanked him and went up to look himself. They were thirty-five yards from the bridge. He brought his men up to form a rough skirmish line five yards apart, and cupped his hands and made the eerie sound of the nighthawk’s call.
Then he lifted his weapon and opened fire. The twenty guns caught the defenders in total surprise. Half of them dove behind protection and fired back at the muzzle flashes. The attackers had the benefit of selecting cover first, and now kept up the firing at the few muzzle flashes they could see.
The firefight lasted for only forty-five seconds. “Cease fire,” Mojombo bellowed, and his weapons went silent. He saw two Army men lift up and race for the bridge. He brought them down with two three-round bursts from his sub gun. Nobody else moved. He waited five minutes. He knew that sometimes the man with the most patience in combat was the winner.
Another Army man tried to get across the bridge. He didn’t make it. Then Mojombo heard splashing. Some of the defenders were wading across the small river.