PRIMAL Vengeance

Chapter 6



PETROCON Oil Refinery, Kordofan District, Sudan



Inside the confines of the refinery, in front of the demountable accommodation buildings, Yang had started his morning fitness regime. Dressed in black combat pants, boots and singlet, he worked through a number of warm-up exercises, testing his injured leg. A Somalian doctor had stitched the wound and he was lucky the blade had missed anything vital. Confident that he could carry the weakness, he started working a standing bag with punch and elbow combinations. His face was still swollen, another painful reminder of his failure on the 'Tian Hai'. As his body warmed he sped up the combinations, unleashing his rage on the spring loaded heavy bag. Unable to bear the weight of a roundhouse kick on his bad leg, he focused on low front kicks.

"Sir." One of the refinery guards interrupted his routine.

"What?" Yang snapped back in Mandarin.

"The Arabs are here."

Yang paused mid-combo and turned his head. "Really? I do not see them?"

The guard spoke into his radio. "Let them in."

Yang returned to his routine as the Janjaweed trucks pulled into the vehicle car park behind the gates. He completed another series of punches as the Arab raiders gathered in front of their trucks. There were more than forty men, all dark skinned and clad in various styles of desert and woodland camouflage.

Yang finished his punches and stepped away from the bag wiping the sweat from his face and arms with a towel. He threw it onto a chair and walked across to the waiting men.

"Who is in charge?" he asked in English.

The Janjaweed stared at him with open animosity. Omar had told them to report to the Chinese operative, a notion that did not sit well with the fiercely independent warriors.

There was silence as Yang met their gazes with his own. Then one of the men stepped forward.

"You think you are a fighter, Chinaman?" The Janjaweed commander glanced at the standing bag. "Do you f*ck pretend women as well?"

A number of the men laughed, translating the joke into their dialect. In a few seconds the entire group was cackling.

Yang did not react. He stood in silence, turned his head from side to side, scanning the rag tag group of fighters. He fixed his stare at the largest of the group. The Arab stood at least six foot nine, a full foot taller than the Chinese operative. Like Yang, he was lean and well muscled.

The Janjaweed leader smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. "Ah, I think our friend prefers the boys, yes!" Once again his men translated the comment and started laughing.

Yang raised his arm and pointed at the man. The Janjaweed boss nodded at the hulking Arab. The man grinned, shrugged off his ammunition belts and handed his machine gun to another man. He swaggered across the sand towards Yang.

With a roar he lept forward, his arms wide to catch Yang in a death grip.

The Chinese operative sidestepped, ducking under the Arab's arm. There was a loud slap and the bigger man roared like a wounded bull. He turned to face Yang and his comrades. His right cheek was glowing red, his eyes watering from the blow. Yang stood calmly, waiting for the next attack.

The Janjaweed fighter was cautious now. He approached slowly, his fists in a defensive guard. Yang, hands forward, palms open, let him close. The Arab swung a punch and Yang caught it under his left arm, pivoted with the motion and slammed his boot into the side of the man's knee dislocating it.

The Arab screamed and dropped his guard. Yang lifted his elbow and drove his body around, connecting with the side of the bigger man's head. The scream stopped as he collapsed in the sand, unconscious.

Having finished his opponent, Yang dusted his hands and once again adopted a passive stance. He watched the surprised Janjaweed leader who was staring at the inert body of his fighter.

"I like this man!" the Arab announced to his men as he stepped forward offering a hand to Yang.

There was an awkward pause as Yang left him hanging. Then he stepped forward to grasp the Arab's hand.

"My name is Yang and I am here to help you defeat our enemies."

"I am Sagrib." The Janjaweed's mouth opened into a putrid smile. "And I like you even more." He laughed and slapped the Chinese operative on the shoulder.

Yang led the men across to where a team of guards were fitting out eight tan four-wheel drives. The team was slotting Chinese built QJZ-89 heavy machine guns into the turret mounts and lighter PKM machine guns to the front pintle mounts. Other men were loading weapons and boxes of ammunition into the back of the trucks.

"The vehicles are yours. My men will provide ammunition, fuel and repairs as you need them," said Yang.

Sagrib translated for his men. They looked at each other in disbelief then rushed forward to inspect the modern equipment. Compared to the relics they usually fought with, the Chinese equipment was state-of-the-art.

"And what do you want from me?" Sagrib asked, eyeing the Chinese agent suspiciously. "I work for Omar, not Chinamen."

Yang placed a satellite phone in the Janjaweed leader's hand. "I am here to help you destroy Sudan's enemies and reclaim her wealth." He took a map from his thigh pocket and unfolded it. He had circled the villages that he wanted the Janjaweed to raid. "These villages are where we need to attack first. If we push the Dinka off the land, then Sudan can claim it and drill for more oil."

Sagrib inspected the map. With his new vehicles and heavy weapons he could hit them hard and withdraw before any of the South Sudanese Army units or the UN could respond. He smiled at the thought of how many of the black Christians his men would kill.

"I will give you regular intelligence updates," said Yang.

"You have people in the South?" asked Sagrib.

"We have people everywhere."