1: Rebels
August 2014, near Gbaguili, Central African Republic
"Hey, Michael, let's have a light," Faraz said in colloquial French, keeping his voice low and jerking his head to get Michael's attention.
Michael Jaarsveld glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Although the first glimmer of dawn was appearing on the eastern horizon, it wasn't properly light yet, and the tell-tale red glow of the end of a cigarette would show through the empty windows of the building, so he shook his head slowly.
"Oh c'mon, it's all dead out there," Faraz complained, tapping two fingers on the metal butt of his AK-47, the muzzle of which was pointing out of the window. "I'm dying, man."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Let's swap places if you're that desperate," he suggested, replying in even sketchier French, stubbing out the end of his own cigarette and sticking it back into the pocket of his loose khaki shirt. Faraz grinned and as soon as Michael had climbed up to the window and poked his AK out, he dropped to a safe position on the floor and gratefully used a match to light the stubby end of a cigarette.
The dawn was casting a dark blue glow over everything and Michael could see the faint outline of the road outside, as well as the silhouettes of the trees lining it. He knew he wouldn't feel comfortable until the sun was properly up and he could see into the gaps between the trees, since shooting at this distance in the gloom was a guess at best. The rest of his squad were grabbing sleep in the upstairs rooms of the building, and Michael heard a rustle as someone turned over or got up to take a leak. He tried to ignore it, and ignore the way his mind jumped to conclusions. His subconscious wanted to see men in the trees every time he heard the slightest noise.
"God, you're jumpy," Faraz laughed quietly when Michael reacted to the sound of Faraz's AK grinding gently across the concrete floor.
"Keep it down," Michael replied, grumpily. He hadn't slept well on the rock-hard floor and overnight guard duty had sapped his patience.
"Morning lads," Commander Yamake whispered as he shuffled across the floor from the staircase. "All quiet?"
A lot of the younger members of the squad, like Faraz, laughed at the way Yamake always took precautions no matter the situation, but Michael respected any man who'd lived in active war zones for twenty years of his adult life and was still alive.
"No activity," Faraz responded, shrugging.
Yamake leant himself up against the wall next to Michael and wiped his dusty hands on his combat trousers. "The boys upstairs are mostly waking up. If it's all quiet I'll let them get on with breakfast."
"I'm dying for some hot food," Michael admitted, and with a nod Yamake sent a relieved Faraz upstairs to share the news.
Yamake and Michael stared out at the gradually lightening road for a few minutes in silence, then Yamake slowly and smoothly slid his AK up onto the windowsill.
"Something's not right," Yamake muttered, his eyes darting around. "Was the door of that building closed yesterday?"
Michael followed his gaze over at the building opposite. It was a partly burnt-out two-storey building which still had a twisted and charred steel structure on top which formerly held an advertising board. The front door was closed, but it was marked with some chalk which Michael knew he hadn't seen yesterday.
"No, it was open," Michael admitted. "Damn it, I should've noticed."
"Might have been the wind," Yamake told him, but both of them now had their rifles aimed at the gaping windows of the burnt building. "Or wild animals."
Michael took a deep breath to steady himself. There were more noises coming from upstairs now as breakfast got started and he forced himself to stay focused on what he could see and not react to every little noise. Yamake had picked a perfect defensive spot: their vantage point at the front of the building covered three sides, and the rear of the building was protected by a high gate which would make a loud noise if anyone tried to scale it. It was light enough now for Michael to see the orange dust on the road and in less than half an hour it would be totally light. They were facing west so their positions were in shadow, whilst the other buildings would all be in the bright sun with nowhere to hide.
Suddenly a shadow passed across one of the windows opposite. Yamake pressed a finger to his lips as Michael tightened his grip on his rifle.
"I see two men," Yamake said, so quietly that Michael could barely hear him. "Go and get Faraz and Guy."
Michael stayed low, almost crawling on his belly as he went up the stairs. Their squad was ten in total including the commander, and of the eight others, four were still lying on their bedrolls, either sleeping or pretending to. Guy was sleeping closest to the stairs, and Michael jabbed him in the ribs to wake him. He groaned softly, but soldier's instinct meant his eyes flashed open without him moving a muscle.
"Get Faraz and come down," Michael hissed. "Two men in the building opposite. Might be nothing. Tell everyone else to stay low."
Guy nodded, his hands already wrapping around his rifle. Guy was the one who'd recruited Michael for the anti-rebels and they were like brothers: they'd been through everything and shared everything. Michael slithered back down the stairs and as Guy spread the news, the noise upstairs instantly died down. Michael was barely back in position next to Yamake when Faraz and Guy crawled up behind him. He chuckled to himself when he saw Guy jamming his orange motorcycle helmet on; Guy was the only member of the squad who could bear wearing a protective helmet in anything but the most desperate firefight and the motorcycle helmet was the only thing he'd been able to find. Luckily the colour blended in with the mud and didn't make him an obvious target.
"Faraz, here," Yamake said, pointing to the next window across. "Guy, you replace Michael."
Michael's heart sank a little that he hadn't been chosen for nice, safe guard duty. Yamake took his eyes off the building to reach down and do his bootlaces up to the top, then looked at Michael.
"You come with me, I can trust you," he said, smiling coldly. "Guy, Faraz, keep watch and only shoot if you're certain you've got a good shot. We want to surprise them. Don't shoot us, either. We'll whistle the all-clear if we can."
Guy leant up against the wall and grinned at Michael briefly, revealing his two missing incisors. "Gotcha, Commander," he said, and he turned back to look out of the window as Yamake led Michael across the room to the back door.
"On three, we go down the street a hundred yards, then cut across to the other side, come back up, go in through the windows. I'll go in first, you shout something in Arabic to distract them, then follow," Yamake said, adjusting a strap on his bulletproof vest and using his thumb to press the banana-shaped spare magazine for his AK deeper into a pocket. For the millionth time Michael wished he had better protective equipment than a tatty ex-UN peacekeeping bulletproof vest of his own, but a lot of the militias they worked with had nothing more than street clothes and shotguns and more than once the vest had saved his skin.
Yamake took a final look out of the window before crouching by the door and holding up three gnarled fingers. As he counted them down, Michael noticed that the hair on the commander's arms was turning grey, and he fervently wished that he'd live long enough to have grey hairs himself.
The third finger went down and Yamake left the building without hesitation. Michael followed; Yamake would never put himself in unnecessary danger and Michael trusted him. As they did their best to run down the alleyway, half-crouching to stay out of sight, Michael could feel familiar adrenaline kicking in. He loved the rush, and completely understood why normal people went bungee-jumping or skydiving. In his case, though, his high came from storming a building full of rebels.
Yamake suddenly turned left and Michael followed him between two buildings until they reached the road. They dashed across, keeping their heads down, and then turned back up the road towards their targets. They ducked into the next alleyway and Michael could feel himself sweating under his shirt. He hadn't changed it for two days and his underwear similarly didn't bear thinking about, and he said another fervent prayer that he wouldn't die in these nasty-smelling clothes.
They reached the building, but Yamake didn't miss a beat. Holding his rifle in one hand, he vaulted through one of the empty windows, disappearing into the shadows inside. Michael slid to a halt and pressed himself up against the concrete wall, counted a beat, then shouted "God is good!", a common rebel call, in his best Arabic before swinging his legs over the windowsill and dropping inside.
The rebels mostly spoke Arabic and the hope was that they'd think Michael and Yamake were friendly since the anti-rebels all spoke French or local languages. Michael had no idea if it would work as he glanced around the dull, empty room, which showed evidence of the scorching fire. It looked as if the worst of the fire damage must have been upstairs, and Yamake, having checked the perimeter was safe, pointed upwards with one finger and then set off up the stairs, followed closely by Michael.
Just before they reached the top, Michael heard a burst of rifle fire which sounded like it was coming from their squad across the road. Normally the first few shots of an engagement gave him a jolt, but his system was so flooded with adrenaline now that they just spurred him on. Yamake dropped low as he reached the top of the stairs and fired two covering shots in quick succession. Michael aimed his rifle over Yamake's head, covering him in return. He caught a glimpse of someone standing by the doorframe, but before he could react and fire at them, they'd pulled back. Yamake hadn't seen and launched himself powerfully forwards and into the room at the same moment that Michael tried to warn him.
Yamake swivelled as the man by the door attacked him. It was too close-quarters to get the long-barrelled rifle into position and the rebel sliced hard with a machete into Yamake's vest. Yamake let out a muffled noise, but an instant later Michael was up the last few stairs and had swung his rifle in an arc, not trusting himself to shoot in the enclosed space, the butt smashing into the back of the rebel's head and sending him falling heavily to the ground. It wasn't their smoothest entry to a room and Michael had to lose a precious second getting his rifle back into position to check the rest of the room. There was a man lying on the ground near the windows facing the street, with another man next to him, crouching. Michael didn't hesitate, but the missed second counted. The man swung his arm in a sideways motion, flinging a grenade out of the window and across the street. His arm hadn't even followed through fully when Michael's bullet hit him in the back of the neck, slumping him forward for a second, and then a carefully-placed bullet from across the street hit him and knocked his body back into the room.
Michael looked around the room but there was nobody else in sight and nowhere for anyone else to hide. Yamake was kneeling on the floor, rifle ready again, and there came the sound of the grenade going off. It echoed off the empty buildings, and Michael heard shouting from the squad.
"All clear?" Yamake asked, and Michael nodded, sticking his fingers into his mouth. They tasted of gunmetal and dust as he blew, making a shrill whistle which was their agreed all-clear signal. The shouting from the other building got louder and Michael turned to the stairs again, but Yamake nudged the rebel Michael had knocked out with his foot.
"What about this one?" he asked.
"Bring him with us, ask some questions?" Michael suggested, rolling the man onto his back. He was a young guy in his teens, probably younger than Michael, with a wispy beard and nothing more protective than a fleece jacket. There was a cut on the back of his head oozing a trickle of blood. "My Arabic is good enough to interrogate him and we can tie him up and leave him somewhere."
"Very good," Yamake said briskly. "He won't be coming round for a while so we'll send some of the others over to fetch him later. You go down first, he's winded me and I need a second to catch my breath."
Michael double-checked his rifle in case he needed to use it again and then set off down the stairs, making sure there was no sign of any other rebels hanging around outside. There weren't, and Michael reckoned it must have been a planned ambush. Three guys with no support and nothing more than a couple of rifles and a grenade weren't any kind of match for their entire squad, prepared and in daylight. He was wondering whether they'd overslept or something when he heard a single rifle shot from the upstairs room. Instinctively he turned back and held up his AK, but Yamake just smirked at him as he came down the stairs.
"That'll teach him to try and stab me," Yamake laughed, and Michael's stomach churned as he realised that Yamake had just executed the rebel in cold blood. He could see his face again: the trickle of dark blood, the straggly beard, probably just someone's nephew or cousin who'd begged to come along for a bit of action and to win some respect.
They jogged across the road back to the squad, but when Guy's orange helmet popped up by one of the windows, his face told them something was wrong.
"It's Faraz," Guy said, grimly. "Grenade got him. Terrible luck, it bounced straight off the window frame and into his lap. No chance of avoiding it."
Michael averted his eyes and almost spewed when he spotted Faraz's rifle lying on the floor next to a pool of blood.
"Anyone else hurt?" Yamake asked, gruffly, looking dispassionately at Faraz.
"A bit of shrapnel got me but nothing I won't survive," Guy said, pointing to a graze on his shoulder. "What about your side?"
"Three dead rebels, no injuries for us," Yamake told him, ignoring the gash in his vest from the machete. "Which one of you got the guy in the window?"
"Faraz," Guy said. "Beautiful shooting."
"He was a good shot," Yamake said sadly, shaking his head. "Damn it," he spat, turning on his heel and herding the rest of the squad up the stairs. "You two see to Faraz."
Guy looked at Michael then glanced at Faraz's body, crossing himself. "Better get his grigri," Guy said sadly, kneeling down, avoiding the blood, and used his knife to cut through a leather strap around Faraz's neck, retrieving a worn leather pouch which all the anti-rebels wore as a superstitious good luck charm.
"Didn't do him much good," Michael pointed out as Guy shoved it into his pocket.
"Well, it won't do him any good where he's gone now," Guy said philosophically. "You want it?"
Michael shook his head, reaching under his vest and touching his own grigri. "I'm good, thanks," he said. His adrenaline was wearing off and a night of lost sleep was catching up with him. At least the sight of Faraz had driven any sympathy for the teenage rebel Yamake had killed in the other building out of his system.
Guy patted Michael's shoulder. "Things are winding down here, I reckon," he said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. "Might be time to start thinking about what's next."
The sun was up now and it was starting to get hot. Michael thought about CHERUB and campus, which seemed like a distant memory even though he'd been there only a few months before.
"Whatever," Michael shrugged, shouldering his rifle. "I haven't got anything to go back to."