The Warrior

Sample Chapter

He lies in the moonless night, waiting.

He came to the village just as dusk settled in and has become one with the rainforest. The mud huts with thatched roofs are just about a hundred yards away, so close that he can hear conversations in the huts, families eating, children crying, and women cooking.

The village is split by a road going through it, with huts almost evenly scattered on either side of it, about two hundred of them in all. He knows from his reconnaissance file that there is a concrete structure in the middle of the village that serves as a communal school and youth center.

He observes the arrival of the soldiers close to midnight, about forty of them in two trucks and an open-topped Jeep, a few white-skinned among them. He hears them banging through huts, the screams of women and children, sounds of violence, and the occasional shots.

He calls Andrews on his satellite phone. 'Shit has happened. Forty-odd soldiers drove in half an hour back. I can’t see what’s happening, but I can hear women and children screaming and shooting. I’m going in.'

‘No!’ Andrews shouts across continents.

He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘Don’t engage. Observe, record, and report was your remit, and still is. Are those FDLR soldiers?’

‘Wearing those uniforms. A few white-skinned in them as well. Haven’t a clue if they’re the real deal or not,’ he replies. ‘I can get up close and personal and find out if I go in.’

Andrews laughs harshly. ‘I know what that means. You are not going in whatever happens. I’ll call their embassy in Washington as well as our embassy over there and alert them. BUT YOU ARE STAYING PUT.’ His voice rises with each word.

He lets Andrews stew in the ensuing silence for a long while until Andrews breaks.

‘I know what you want to do, but trust me on this. You are a more valuable asset outside than inside despite whatever shit is raining down there.’

He hangs up on Andrews and continues observing, blackness coiling deep inside him.

He starts the tabla in his head to drown out the anguish of the women and children and forces his mind to play various taals. He is on the teentaal when the trucks finally roar off filled with the soldiers; the voices of the women and children mute a little, but not by much.

The Jeep is still there, its front just peeping out from the shadow of a hut. He silences his mental tabla and listens. Ghostly shadows move between the huts occasionally. If sound could be blotted, it would be a lazy evening in the Congo.

He knows he has to go in. The image of the terrified children and the violated women fuels his rage. He knows he can’t just stay put. The village is quiet now, but the horrors that occurred will echo long after he’s gone. He makes his decision, muscles coiled, ready to strike.

He’s going in.

It isn’t in him to be a passive spectator. Andrews can go fuck himself.