EVIL WINDS

Tradecraft: Phase Two

Michael Shusko

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The views expressed in this work are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the Department of the Navy, Department of Defense, nor the US Government. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Michael Shusko

ISBN-13: 978-0-9981959-5-7

ISBN-10: 0-9981959-5-2

Developmental editing by Philip Athans

Copyediting by Debra Manette

Proofreading by James Fraleigh

Interior book design and typesetting by John Reinhardt Book Design

Cover design by Ty Nowicki

Production management by Leigh Camp

To the peacekeepers and the peacemakers.

Chapter 1

Matak had never been this far away from home. He looked over the side rails of the old, bullet-riddled pickup truck. They had driven for several hours in the oppressive darkness. But now, bright lights shone in the desert ahead of them, illuminating the few barren shrubs and rock formations.

A wide gate swung open, letting in the convoy carrying what was left of the teenagers from the village. As the pickup carrying Matak screeched to a halt, the screaming started.

“Get out! Get out of the truck, you dogs! Hurry before I shoot you like I shot your fathers back in the village!” the men yelled as they yanked the boys out of the trucks.

Matak felt a strong hand on his shoulder and then he was airborne. He landed dazed on the hard-packed sand. The sudden sound of machine-gun fire brought him back into reality. He looked and saw his fourteen-year-old cousin, Obie, get up and sprint through the open gate and into the darkness. Three men from within the compound followed, firing their weapons indiscriminately.

Matak glanced over his shoulder at the second truck—the one carrying the girls. It had also stopped, but no one was getting out of the cargo bed. He was sure he saw them load his twin sister, Fatima, into the truck back in the village.

“Please, please…” Matak prayed quietly, his thoughts returning to Obie. “Please let him make it.”

But Matak’s hopes for his cousin’s safe escape were dashed when he saw the men return, dragging the young boy back as he kicked and screamed, trying to break free from their grip. They threw Obie onto the ground in front of the bright lights of the trucks. One man kicked the boy in the back, and he howled in pain. If Obie had made it to freedom, he could have alerted others of their plight, Matak thought. Perhaps he might have been able to find Matak’s father. That would have been their only chance of surviving.

Matak had heard the stories of what happened to boys and girls who were taken by the Evil Winds.

“Anyone else want to try to escape?” growled a large man wearing camouflaged military cargo pants and a black T-shirt.

Matak looked up at the thick man standing a few feet in front of him.

He was rewarded by the man grabbing him by the back of his shirt. Matak was lifted two meters off the ground and found himself face-to-face with what could only be a shaytan jinn.

“Yes, take a good look, boy,” the man snarled.

But Matak only turned his head to the side, his eyes closed as tightly as possible, shielding himself from the disfigured horror breathing into his face.

“I said look at me,” the voice hissed again.

Matak couldn’t help himself. It was part fear but he also had to know. He had never seen a jinn, or demon, before. If he was going to die in this horrible place tonight, he needed to know what the jinn looked like. He opened his eyes slowly and turned to look at the man holding him in the air. A thick gash, long healed but still horrific, ran down the right side of his face, damaging his eye and disfiguring his cruel grimace.

“Yes,” the scarred man replied, a grin coming over his face. “Look closely. Soon it’ll be like looking in a mirror. You will all look like me after I’m done with you,” he bellowed, throwing Matak back to the ground.

It was all too much for Matak to bear. He began to vomit as he recalled the mangled face of his captor. A few short hours ago, he was playing with Fatima and Obie in his aunt and uncle’s village. His mother had taken them there this morning for a visit. The adults were all dead now. He was forced to watch as they raped his mother and aunt and butchered his uncle with a machete. After the carnage was over, they had rounded up all the children and loaded them into the two trucks, one for boys and one for girls. Everyone in the once vibrant village had succumbed to the Evil Winds.

He was thankful that at least his 12-year-old sister was safe at home with their father. Because Halima was sick with fever back in their own village of Zarundi, this visit to their aunt and uncle in the nearby village of Gutaya almost hadn’t happened. But the elders in Zarundi convinced their mother that it was her duty to go visit her sister, who had just recently had a baby. Her mother undertook the journey, taking Matak and his twin sister Fatima with her, only after Halima’s fever broke. But their mother had insisted that their father remain in Zarundi to care for their youngest child.

While Matak desperately wished his father was here at this moment, he was relieved that young Halima was not. She would undoubtedly have been thrown into the truck with Fatima to await their horrific fate. Perhaps things would have been different if his father had been in Gutaya today. Matak peered into the darkness, searching for his father but knowing he wasn’t there. No one was. There was no one to help them now.

Matak felt like crying, but there were no more tears. Behind him, he saw the glare of the taillights of the truck containing Fatima. It was pulling away, with the girls still on board, heading off to an unknown destination. He feared he would never see his twin sister again.

Staring as the guards bound Obie’s hands and feet to ensure that the boy wouldn’t make another escape attempt, Matak accepted that there was indeed no way out. He knew once the Evil Winds had you, you were never seen again. This was his new home. The only question that remained was, for how long?

Chapter 2

Intense heat hit Angie as she stepped off the plane. It was as though she’d put her head in an open oven. She reached for the railing, pulling back as she touched the hot metal. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could feel the heat radiating from the blistering tarmac beneath her feet. It was dry and relentless, burning her face as she picked up her pace and headed for the sanctuary of the small terminal in front of her.

When she entered the unkempt concrete terminal, the temperature immediately dropped to a cool 90 degrees Fahrenheit. Angie looked around the crowded room, trying to figure out where she should go. Most of the passengers veered to the right, where they would be herded through two immigration booths. The single booth on the left had a very short line. Angie assumed this was for VIPs and diplomats.

“Miss Angie?” said a small man with an even smaller voice.

She turned and noticed a weathered man approaching her. He had a full head of short cropped hair, but his face was dark and leathery. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black in color. Although the whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge, his expression was bright and warm, welcoming Angie after her long, arduous flight. Angie guessed his age was about thirty or thirty-five years, with salt-and-pepper hair and a malnourished frame. Evidently the harsh life of sub-Saharan Africa had taken its toll on this wrinkly-skinned, well-dressed little man.

“Miss Angie?” he repeated.

“Hello,” she answered, holding out her hand. “Yes, I’m Angie Bryant.”

A broad smile came across the man’s face, showing a full set of worn teeth.

“I am Ismael. Mr. Chesterfield sent me. He’s waiting outside for you. I am to help you clear customs,” he said.

It wasn’t uncommon for government agencies and embassies to have expeditors waiting at the airport. Western governments and companies often hired locals to help their employees navigate the bureaucracies of the developing world. These expeditors also came in handy arranging hotel rooms, getting rental cars, and generally making life easier for foreigners working and living in Africa.

“Please, follow me, Miss Angie,” Ismael said as he darted off towards the immigration booth on the left. She hurried behind her fragile-looking expeditor, not wanting to get lost in the bustling crowd pressing around her. Apparently, personal space was a foreign concept in Chad.

A young but stern immigration official spoke some harsh-sounding Arabic to Ismael. After a brief exchange, her passport was stamped and they were heading to the baggage claim area.

“Was there a problem with the immigration official, Ismael?” she asked, wondering about the terse exchange. “He didn’t sound very happy with you.”

“No, not at all. He’s my wife’s brother. He’s upset with us for not coming to dinner last night,” Ismael replied with a sheepish grin and a shrug of his gaunt shoulders. “Please, let us find your bags.”

Well, now I know why you’re the expeditor.

Angie stood by the old baggage carousel watching the broken boxes, taped-up bags, and the occasional suitcase glide slowly by. She was beginning to get nervous as fewer and fewer bags and boxes appeared on the worn conveyor belt. Finally, her large green bag appeared, amazingly unharmed despite the long trip from California.

“Here, this is it.” Angie reached for the bag.

“No, Miss Angie. Please let me get it,” Ismael insisted. She was certain her suitcase weighed at least as much as the man did, but he managed to lift it off the conveyor and use both hands to drag it to the doors leading into the main reception terminal.

“Really, I can carry it, Ismael.”

“No, no. It’s okay.”

Feeling guilty but not wanting to insult her expeditor, Angie followed quietly behind him, hoping he wouldn’t have a heart attack as he lugged her oversized bag through the airport exit.

* * * * *

Henry Chesterfield was not at all what Angie had expected when she saw him standing by the white Toyota Land Cruiser with the big black UN logo plastered on the door. His deep voice on the phone had led her to image a tall, younger man rather than the portly, bespectacled chap in his early fifties who stood before her.

“Hello, Angie. Welcome to Chad,” he said in perfect Queen’s English.

 “Hi. Henry?” she asked, wanting confirmation as she extended her hand.

“Yes,” he said warmly. “Good to meet you. Let’s get your luggage in the back, shall we? You must be exhausted after your long flight.”

Ismael was already on it, swinging her bag off the curb and hoisting it into the back of the vehicle. Angie decided not to watch, fearing for Ismael’s safety.

“Actually, I know I should be tired, but I’m too excited. I probably couldn’t sleep right now even if I tried.”

“Splendid. Why don’t we get you checked in and we can sit in the hotel restaurant and have a talk? I have a press conference at the British embassy later this afternoon, but I have some time to fill you in on what’s been going on here since we last spoke on the telephone,” Henry replied.

“I guess being a media coordinator for the United Nations High Commission for Refugees keeps you busy,” Angie said.

“To say the least. It would be nice if I had some help, but right now it’s just yours truly. I’m the only UNHCR official in N’Djamena, despite the huge number of refugees on the eastern border with Sudan. To make matters worse, the Sudanese government has done a very good job of maintaining a total media blackout,” Henry said. “As hard I try, I can’t get the word out about the atrocities occurring in Sudan all by myself. The best I can do is help facilitate the journey for the few journalists like yourself who brave the long flight here to visit the refugee camps in eastern Chad.”

While Henry rambled on in the backseat of the Land Cruiser, Angie focused on the rundown mud and concrete dwellings they passed on the back roads of the capital. Trash lined the dilapidated dirt alleys, conveying the depth of poverty in this abandoned corner of Africa. If it was this bad in the capital city, she wondered, what must it be like across the border in war-torn Darfur?

“I thought oil had been discovered in this part of Africa not long ago,” she interrupted Henry’s tirade about frequent loss of power in the hotel where she would be staying. “Where is the money going?”

“What little revenue remains after the foreign companies and the corrupt government officials in the region take their cut is used to make military purchases to fight rebels and insurgents instead of directly benefiting the people.”

“What do foreign businesses have to do with the problems in Sudan?” she asked.

“There are a fair number of foreigners and private international companies that have been discreetly operating in Africa and other underdeveloped parts of the world for years. Profiteers from across the globe. Many operating here freely, probably even without the knowledge of their own governments. They pay off dishonest politicians, promise to build a cheap road or bridge as a sign of goodwill, all the while building factories, quarries, and refineries in remote areas to pillage oil and minerals from the people,” Henry explained.

“That’s horrible. You never hear about it in the States. Isn’t the UN doing anything about it?”

“You will soon learn, my young ideological American friend, that this is Africa. No one cares much about this lost continent. The real atrocity is the complacency of the international community while all of these war crimes continue for decades.”

Angie leaned back in her seat, flabbergasted. “You mentioned rebels here in Chad? So, there’s war here too? I thought most of the fighting was in Sudan.”

“Unfortunately, the political instability and violence in the Darfur region of Sudan has spilled over into this country. Much of the Chadian rebel activity is based out of western Sudan, near Darfur. They take advantage of the lawlessness there.”

“So much fighting and suffering,” Angie whispered, staring out at the mud shacks dotting the road leading up to her hotel.

“That’s why I’m so glad you’re here, Angie,” Henry replied as they pulled up to the Meridien Hotel. “I’m afraid most media outlets in your country have forgotten about us here in Chad and across the border in the Sudan. There was some hope after the Rwandan genocide that the world would pay more attention to Africa, but, regrettably, it was only a passing phase. The violence has continued to escalate in Sudan yet the world turns a blind eye to the suffering. Perhaps it was thought that the creation of the new country of South Sudan would solve everything. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

“But, hopefully, you can tell the refugees’ stories,” he added with a smile as he got out of the SUV. “I have arranged a local charter to take us to the border to see the refugee camps tomorrow. There are twelve established camps currently, but many smaller makeshift camps are popping up in the desert on either side of the border. The Janjaweed have most of the camps surrounded and, despite the presence of nearly twenty thousand largely ineffective UNAMID soldiers and police sent to protect the refugees, the Janjaweed raids continue.”

“Tell me about the Janjaweed,” Angie said as they walked into the hotel.

Ismael had taken her bag to the check-in counter as Henry led Angie to a small table near the front desk. They sat down in front of the beautiful glass elevator in a tall, open foyer as a waiter brought them two bottles of water.

“They’re ruthless Arab Bedouin from the north of Sudan. Their name is somewhat of a linguistic mystery, but it’s usually translated as something like ‘devil horsemen with rifles.’ At least that’s how they act. They’re hardened nomads who have been sweeping through the Darfur region with the help of Sudanese government troops, weapons, planes, and financing. They won’t stop until all of Sudan is Islamic and populated solely by Arabs. They want the non-Arab African tribes out of Darfur.”

“And no one is able to do anything about it?” she asked.

“In a word,” he said, his eyes displaying the deep sadness in his heart, “no. You see, Angie, years of desertification, famine, and overpopulation has turned millions of acres of fertile land in northern Sudan into a desert. I remember when I first came to the Sudan as a child. My father was an archaeologist in Egypt. It was lovely—lush and green. The summer rainy season turned the dry lands into beautiful, fertile fields, perfect for grazing cattle and growing millet, the staple food of Darfurians. But decades of drought and misuse of the land and natural resources has turned vast tracks of the Sahel into a barren desert. Those who lived there, mainly Arab Bedouin and herdsmen, found themselves venturing deeper south into Darfur, looking to exploit what farmland remained to find better grazing fields for their livestock. These incursions, however, were only the tip of the iceberg.”

As Henry spoke, Angie took a small pad out of her bag and jotted down some notes. “What did the government do about it?” she asked.

“For years, the Sudanese government has been making the area less stable with its policy of ethnic cleansing. The Arab-dominated government and military were intolerant of the non-Arab African tribes that live in Darfur. The Fur is the largest of these non-Arab tribes, but there are others. Many people think that the war in Darfur is about religion. While some Christians and even animistic tribes do exist, the majority of Darfur inhabitants are Sunni Muslims, just like the Janjaweed. It’s not about the religion, but rather the ethnicity of the villagers that put them in peril. With strong government backing, the Arab nomads from the north drove deeper into Darfur, slaughtering entire villages and stealing their land to create a more ethnically Arab state.”

Angie let the man, obviously in pain over the atrocities that were overtaking his beloved adopted home, gather his thoughts. She wasn’t sure if he was just tired or wiping away a tear as the British ex-patriot rubbed his eyes.

Finally, he continued. “There have been many international movements and resolutions against the Sudanese government, but they still have powerful allies. Some foreign governments have deep financial interests in the region and they’ve used their voice at the UN on more than one occasion to prevent us from doing more.”

“Who’s fighting for Darfur? For the refugees?"

“Well, you’re here. We also have an American doctor from the NGO Medicine International who works at the camp,” Henry added with a smile, referring to one of the many nongovernmental organizations providing aid throughout Africa. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe all this is happening and no one cares.”

“Most nations just see Africa as a land of poverty and lawlessness. Their belief is that there’s little to gain from investing economic or political resources here. The global profiteers that are here, on the other hand, see things quite differently. They’re using the vast financial capital from their profitable companies to engage with African governments across the continent in an attempt to extract vital natural resources and sell them to the highest bidders. Unfortunately, many Western governments just don’t see the benefit of investing in or helping Africa.”

“That’s just wrong.”

“Right or wrong, it’s the reality in which we find ourselves.”

“Miss Angie, you’re all checked in now, and your luggage is on its way to your room,” Ismael reported, handing her the key.

“Thank you, Ismael,” she said with the first smile of her trip. It was difficult to even force a smile when there was so much misery all around her.

“Well,” Henry said as he stood up, “get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow. The suffering you’ll see is truly heart-wrenching and will wear you down quickly. I’ll pick you up right here at nine o’clock in the morning. Do you have everything you need?”

“I’m good. Thanks, Henry. Thank you for giving me the chance to come out here. I hope I can do some good for you and the refugees.”

“No, Angie Bryant. It is I who should be thanking you. You have a great opportunity here. Not many people outside of Africa see what you will see tomorrow. Tell the world, Angie. That’s how you can help.”