Cold War Dogs

By Samori Augusto

An amputee ex-soldier. A reporter in over her head. A ruthless team of mercenaries.

Antonio, aka "Tanque," is an amputee called back into the Angolan military that dismissed him. His mission: complete the task he failed before: capture or kill Pik Wousson, the South African mercenary threatening to destroy Angola's capital.

Tanque has two weeks to find and stop the mercenary. But Pik Wousson is no ordinary mercenary: he is the man who made Tanque an amputee in the first place.

Meanwhile, Ljiljana is a reporter in the US who suspects that the mercenary she has tracked down is the man who killed her husband. She soon finds herself among the mercenaries and slowly realizes that she may not make it out alive.

Time is running out for Tanque as he struggles against bureaucracy, the aftermath of a life of fighting, and a history of battles entwined with the long history of war in Angola.

Will he be able to stop Pik in time?

BUY THE BOOK TODAY to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samori Augusto
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311357434

Samori Augusto

Samori Augusto is the author of the novel, "Cold War Dogs", his first. and a few short stories in various genres. In his spare time, he is a data management expert.

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Cold War Dogs

By Samori Augusto

 2nd Edition Story Copyright © 2017 Samori Augusto

Maps © 2012 Patricia Anderson

Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/ktarrier

Published by Samori Augusto at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For more, and to join my mailing list to receive updates about my writing and other goodies, visit my author page at:

https://samoriaugusto.com/stories

All Rights Reserved

Primo Augustinho and Tatu (via Jon Lee Anderson) for inspiration.

My mother for the life and the stories and the research materials.  My father for Angola.  Adi for suffering through the reading. Patti for the original painting of Tanque and the maps.

Vive la mort, vive la guerre, vive le sacre mercenaire.

—Mercenary marching cadence and toast

Part I: The Return of the Mercenary

Chapter 1: The Mercenary Returns

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

A DAMP FLAG whipped in the wind, the communist cog wheel, worker’s machete, and solitary star on red and black polyester contrasting with the dark Mercedes as it muscled its way south. António watched a huge gold Toyota Land Cruiser swerve past and barely miss an old Soviet-red Lada whose exposed engine hissed forth steam in the light rain. Up the hill across the busy road, children jumped and laughed as they chased each other around a mosquito-infested pond bordered by garbage. 

When António had left the country a month ago it was well past the rainy season. Now it should have been drier and cooler, not rainy. A bad sign. António suppressed the urge to demand that the driver let him out. He couldn’t wheel himself the 8 km back home. He was trapped in a car that smelled new, was too comfortable, and made the old soldier uneasy.

The chauffeur took another bite of peanut cake and resumed babbling about his boss the vice-minister.

Balumuka, your stupid driver never shuts up. You’d better be right if you’re forcing me to deal with your crap.

Still, António couldn’t help the chill that shook his entire body—even the phantom of his missing left leg. 

Pik Wousson was back. The mercenary had returned.

Balumuka, if you’re telling the truth…

António unclenched his fists and smoothed out his new Belgian pants stopping to straighten the cloth around his left stump. This was his real fear: that he might have to confront Pik as an incomplete man.

Pik had made him an incomplete man, two decades ago.

THE RAIN HAD stopped. António could see why: ahead lay the walls of Futungo de Belas, the presidential compound in the south of Luanda. This was the real center of power in Angola, and even the rain knew to maintain a respectful distance.

Balumuka’s chauffeur wiped crumbs off his shirt as he rolled the car towards the huge gates. Six heavily armed presidential guardsmen in full camouflage, caps, and UGP armbands surrounded the car and opened all the doors. Step out! The driver jumped out and spread his arms. A second guard ignored the two bars and star on the passenger’s shoulders and pointed a rifle at António’s stomach. Out! 

António shifted slightly to show his stump. The guard signaled to a second man, then beckoned António towards the door. The two men struggled to support António out of the car.

God, you’re huge! the first guard said. He nodded to a third guard. Hurry up! António heard satisfying groans coming from the guards as he leaned on them instead of standing ramrod straight as usual. The third guard checked the military identification card from António’s pocket.

António Cazombo. Born in Moxico, April 13th 1954. Occupation: Major, 16th Brigade, FAA. Based in Cabo Ledo. The guard peered closer at him. Cazombo, he said. I’ve heard of you. What was it…‘Tanque,’ right. My uncle knew you, from the war. On the eastern front, right? What happened to your leg?

Land mine, António said tersely. He peered past the guards into the tree-laden compound. I’m late. The guard frowned, snapped a salute and returned the identification card. António was helped back into the car and the Mercedes drove into Futungo. 

The compound was vast. UGP guards, men in expensive suits, and women in short dresses and high heels strode purposefully between buildings. António peered around discreetly. Past the trees and one story buildings he noticed civilian and military helicopters near the white beach sands, but not the rumored anti-aircraft missile batteries.

THEY DROVE TO one of the furthermost buildings away from the central palace. A European woman with short-cropped brown hair, wearing a plain blouse and jeans approached. "Majore António Cazombo? she extended her hand. I'm Vice-Minister Balumuka Cazombo’s personal assistant." She spoke Portuguese with confidence and a heavy accent. António decided she was one of the thousands of estrangeiros who earned foreign currency, lived in the new condomínios, frequented the best shops in Luanda and traveled abroad freely. She was tall, athletic, and attractive, and António disliked her instantly, but extended his hand. 

He was surprised when she practically pulled him out of the car in one swift gesture. António squinted at her more carefully in the leafy sunlight, noticed the slight bulge of a gun. A bodyguard. Balumuka must be busy making enemies to need a discreet foreign protector.

The woman removed António’s wheelchair from the trunk. She wheeled António into the building. They went down a cool bright hallway filled with images from Sonangol: oil rigs off the coast of Cabinda and the northwestern Zaire province, men working on pipelines, the president touring facilities accompanied by the president of France, and Sonangol’s and international oil company logos. They passed an office with smartly dressed Europeans and Angolans staring at computer screens. They entered a carpeted waiting room with plush seating around a coffee table littered with oil industry magazines. Double-doors faced the table.

The woman positioned António beside an armchair and entered the office. António clenched and un-clenched his fists around the hard metal of the wheelchair.

I shouldn’t be here. Why did I agree to meet him?

THE DOUBLE-DOORS opened. Behind the white woman was a man in an expensive gray suit, arms already outstretched. "Majore António Cazombo. Tanque. Back from Europe. Welcome to Futungo!" António winced as Balumuka’s soft cheeks pressed against each of his. He was surrounded by sweet cologne. Balumuka pressed two soft, manicured hands into António’s large rough hand.

Balumuka, António said in a neutral voice. Then: "Vice-Ministro."

Balumuka stood back to look at António. His steady smile revealed perfect teeth. The expression on his well-fed face was friendly and inviting. But António caught a gleam in the hooded eyes, just before Balumuka gestured towards his office. Shall we talk?

I shouldn’t be here.

WHAT ANNOYED ANTÓNIO the most were the perpetual knowing smile and the shiny black hair. Balumuka should have as many gray hairs as António had in his beard and hair. …Were lucky to have seen them, Balumuka was saying. Leaning back in his enormous chair, Balumuka alternated his gaze between the window on the left wall, the papers on his huge desk, and his guardian standing just past António’s view. 

A patrol was…passing through southern Bandundu when they came upon the camp. These are smart men, ones that you helped train, António, and they spent some time observing before continuing on their mission. 

Balumuka paused for a rare glance at António. António held his eyes. I may have trained those men, but your kind misused them. Balumuka looked annoyed, leaned forward and tapped his fingers together as he turned back to the papers before him.

How can you be sure it was him? António’s said brusquely. He cleared his throat. How did they identify him?

We have no good recent pictures of Wousson, the personal assistant said, moving into António’s view. We have a few outdated images that—.

—A foreign businessman was able to provide to us, Balumuka finished smoothly.

Yes, the woman said. But those are from 1985, when Wousson was still with the SAP Counter Terrorist Unit—Koevoet. She pronounced it Kufut the same way António had heard the South Africans say it.

And we have your description, Balumuka said.

Your description…António quashed the thought. He caught Balumuka and the woman glancing down at his hands rub his stump.

The woman continued: More importantly, the patrol’s descriptions of the men helped narrow it down to a few known mercenaries. Most of the others no longer operate in this part of the world, are believed dead, or have retired. Pik Wousson is the most likely candidate.

António glared at her. Who are you, exactly? Who do you really work for?

Balumuka’s eyes went wide. Now—! 

"I’m sorry, Majore Cazombo, she said. I should have introduced myself properly. My name is Alice. António had heard that pronunciation of Alice while in Brussels. So Belgian or French. I came to work with the vice-minister a year ago, at his request. I’m his personal assistant and his personal protection. I have a military background, as you’ve probably already guessed. I served in—a western special forces unit with some experience in Africa. I work privately now. I have some understanding of the different groups operating in the region, and contacts that can provide information. The Ministry also has resources and access to certain information, which is available to us."

António studied Alice’s gray eyes more intently. Her tight face didn’t reveal much. What does this woman know about me, my history with the army, this man, and this country. ‘Some experience in Africa,’ António sneered. "Haven’t all the western ‘special forces’ had plenty of experience in Africa?" Alice only narrowed her eyes. Well, she’s not easily goaded. 

Balumuka, however, was. António, she’s here to help us! the vice-minister blurted.

Of course, António said with a curt smile and a nod. He scooted his wheelchair back and rested his chin on his fist. "Please continue, Alice."

ALICE RETRIEVED A thin computer and placed it on Balumuka’s desk facing António. The screen showed a map of the northernmost area of the Angolan province of Lunda Norte and the southernmost area of the Democratic Republic of Congo’s Bandundu province. Overlaid over the region starting in Lunda Norte and ending deep in the Congo was a red curving line, with an arrow pointing northwest in the general direction of Kinshasa. About two-thirds across the line was a large black spot.

Two weeks ago, the patrol was moving in this direction, Alice said tracing the line with her finger. This spot is where they saw Wousson. I wish I could’ve provided them with a camera or a GPS device to plant near Wousson’s equipment.

António shook his head. If the patrol had been close enough to Wousson’s camp, they would all be dead now: regardless of how good they were, Pik Wousson’s men were better.

What do you think then? Balumuka said. These are practically your men.

António shrugged. "I haven’t been involved with the destacamento in three years. What happened with all that supposed ‘different training for special missions’ the army talked about when they stripped me of my command?" 

Balumuka leaned forward: António, our tactics can’t possibly have changed that much. Balumuka said our as if he were a soldier too, instead of a man who had spent decades clawing his way into the elite circle of politicians around the president. "Don’t act like you don’t know how good the men of the 1º Destacamento Especial are!"

António stopped himself from snapping back. He was getting into dangerous territory. Balumuka knew his opinions, and it was certain Alice did too since she seemed so well informed. But they were still not the kind of thoughts one aired in a building at the center of power in all of Angola. Walls had ears. He turned back to the map and rubbed his temples.

It doesn’t matter how good ‘our’ men are, António said. What’s important is Pik Wousson and his men. Same ex-32 Battalion men he had last time. All black, right? Alice nodded. Then all these men are experienced professionals. The patrol happened upon Pik’s camp, observed them through rifle scopes or binoculars. They stayed how long?

A few hours, Alice said. Maybe three.

António sat up straight. Pik knew they were there and chose to let them go. Killing or detaining them would have called unnecessary attention, but he made sure they were far enough that they couldn’t gain any useful information. He’s had two weeks, by now he’s relocated. Probably into Angola, or further west: Brazzaville or Cabinda.

Balumuka and Alice exchanged glances. It’s very important that we stop him, Alice said.

António’s gravelly laughter echoed off the office walls. ‘Very important,’ he said. "Of course it is! It’s been important to stop this man for the last 20 years. We tried it, once. The men who survived that were…lucky. Those were my men, good men that Wousson killed and hurt. Now you want to send more men to do the same?

But…Wousson wouldn’t be in the Congo or Angola unless he was getting paid. UNITA is fragmented and fading. Wousson’s been a mercenary longer than South Africa has had a non-apartheid government. Portugal, France, America, China, Russia—none of these have any real reason to threaten Angola: they benefit from helping us protect the extraction of our natural resources. Mobutu’s gone; Kabila’s son is an ally. Who would hire Pik Wousson, and why?

Balumuka unlocked a drawer in his desk. He handed a plain manila envelope to Alice, who passed it to António. He pulled out a printed letter addressed to The Corrupt and Autocratic Government of Angola. António skipped to the end: no signature or name, just a series of numbers. He read the letter.

…We are going to bring your government down. The MPLA and the GURN, with that dog Dos Santos at their head, are not legitimate representatives of the African people of Angola. They have never been legitimate. Dos Santos stays in power by buying off every single person in the government and the army, and placing his family members in positions of power and wealth. 

We will prove he is not as powerful as he thinks. We will show the world how helpless he and his cronies are. And when he falls from power, his crimes will come back to haunt him.

If you want to prevent your destruction: pay us $250 million in cash or diamonds. Dos Santos, his family, and his friends have millions in Switzerland, Belgium, and Cayman from the bonuses they receive from oil companies, and from controlling Angola’s diamond companies…

 Sounds like a dissident or some new political party, António ventured. Or maybe even one of the many leftover UNITA factions.

Balumuka slammed a fist on his desk. This is a terrorist threat that the president and the government take very seriously! This isn’t some little political party or a dissident. This is your South African mercenary threatening the legitimate government of Angola with terrorism! The report from our patrol proves it’s him.

Do you recognize the numbers? Alice said. António peered at the numbers again, shrugged. Those are the longitude and latitude locations of Futungo de Belas, Alice said, "The Televisão Popular de Angola building in Luanda, the Port of Luanda, the 4 de Fevreiro international airport."

If those four places around the capital were attacked and destroyed it might cause chaos. Anyone could find those by opening a map. Is this from you, Pik? Why warn us? Why not just attack, rather than give your target time to prepare? Are you that confident, you bastard? What’s this other number? António said.

We were hoping you could tell us, Alice said.

António frowned at her. He turned back to the number: 43421979. A serial number?

And then it cut through him like a knife. He doubled over in the wheelchair. The room reeled. He fought for each gasped breath. 

The office vanished. He was back in the dark room. The voice spoke calmly to him: Do you recognize the number 43421979? No? You don’t recognize that? 

Dulcie November. Doce!

ANTÓNIO BROKE FREE from the undertow of emotions and pushed back to the surface. He opened his eyes: he was in Balumuka’s office. Alice and Balumuka watched him with alarm. António blocked the voice from his mind.

He took deep breaths. Why is Pik doing this. Why warn your enemy. Why encode a message that only one person among all the millions of Angolans would recognize?

"Majore Cazombo?"

António smiled weakly. Sorry. I was just…

The army thinks they know where Pik Wousson is.

What? Where? António’s voice was raspy.

 Well…they can show you, Alice said. We told them not to move against Pik until we could get you there. They’re ready to move now.

 I have a helicopter waiting for you outside, Balumuka offered smoothly.

I have to— António began. He clenched his muscles to control the trembling building in the small of his back.

Are you well enough to do this? Alice asked.

Yes. But the office was vanishing again. In its place was a broken down one-story building, surrounded by open land. And in the distance…a truck rumbling…

The last time you took on these mercenaries, you failed. António’s eyes refocused on Balumuka. Trust Balumuka to focus on the one part of 1º Destacamento Especial’s mission that hadn’t succeeded. But then, the army said the same as their ultimate excuse for relieving him of his command. We can’t have another failure! Balumuka added.

I should say I don’t care. I’m not a soldier anymore. None of you ever appreciated the sacrifices I’ve made for you. I could tell you to go fuck yourselves, especially you, Balumuka. 

But you knew what my answer would be before I even arrived at Futungo.

I have to get a message to my son…

Chapter 2: Merc Hunting

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

THE SIKORSKI FLATTENED grass and blew a swirling curtain of orange dust through which António caught glimpses of three men standing beside a jeep, watching. The helicopter thudded to a stop. The pilot opened the door and swept his arm, inviting António to jump out. António sat at the edge, pushed himself out and stumbled. The three men at the jeep looked at each other, but made no move to help. António reached back to receive his bag from the pilot and strung it across his shoulder. He accepted his crutches from the pilot and steadied himself. He took a deep breath of exhaust fumes and dust, and for a moment was in the past, jumping out of MI-18s before they even landed, springing up on both legs, running to a point position. He pushed himself to the jeep. 

The largest of the three men stepped forward. "Majore Cazombo?. They clasped hands, trading crushing handshakes. "I’m Capitão Kiluanje. That’s Tenente Vieiras and Cabo Mateus. Vamos. We have to catch up with the rest of my men."

Corporal Mateus helped António into the jeep’s back seat beside the Captain. Then he sped off north just as the Sonair Sikorski took off. António watched the tri-colored helicopter until it disappeared to the west. He turned back to find Tenente Vieiras watching him. Where Corporal Mateus and Captain Kiluanje were dark-skinned, the Lieutenant was a mestiço. This said less about Tenente Vieiras and more about Capitão Kiluanje.

"You travel in style, Majore," Tenente Vieiras said. An entire petroleum company helicopter for just one passenger?

António pursed his lips in response. He thought about Marcelo. António had promised himself after his son had returned that he would always be there for him as a father should be. And now he was on his way to a new dangerous mission. Cesinada’s disappointed frown appeared in his mind. I’m sorry, Zina, but I have to. António turned back to what lay ahead.

THE FOUR MEN traveled in silence for hours. The land grew more lush, denser, and louder with insects, animals, and the hum of life in the approaching rainforest. The pothole choked road had long since turned into a beaten path of red earth and trampled branches. There were fewer and fewer villages and huts, then for a while there was nothing, until suddenly: an empty, dilapidated checkpoint. The jeep passed without stopping.

We’ve crossed the border, Tenente Vieiras said over his shoulder. He produced a radio, spoke, and received a static-filled response. We should reach the men in another hour.

António took a deep breath. It had been a while since he’d been here. The hair on his arms felt prickly. He could sense it, out there, coming towards him through the humid air: battle.

Suddenly, people: women with bundles on their heads and babies on their backs pushed little children away from the vehicle; old Bakongo men, their faces as gray as their hair, stared in reproach at the jeep’s occupants. And finally: three parked trucks and dozens of camouflaged men toting rifles.

Tenente Vieiras jumped out of the jeep. He spoke to a second Lieutenant, and then both officers ordered their men into the trucks. The clamor of soldiers coming to attention drowned out the forest sounds.

Capitão Kiluanje, silent throughout their trip, stepped out of the jeep and entered into the front seat next to his driver. He produced a flask that he offered to António. A drink before the mission. I always take something to fortify myself before a fight. Especially in Congo.

António smelled whiskey. He looked into the Captain’s eyes and shook his head deliberately. Capitão Kiluanje took a swig of his flask, never taking his eyes off António. He wiped his mouth as the jeep moved into place behind the first truck, the men watching them curiously, whispering to each other.

Look, sir, Capitão Kiluanje said through clenched teeth. "You may be a Majore, but on this mission you’re a civilian. You aren’t officially in uniform, and I haven’t been informed to treat you otherwise. You’re here to help us hunt these mercenaries. I didn’t ask for your help, it was pushed from above. We’ll catch and kill these men. Our intelligence tells me there are about 20. I have two full rifle platoons here under Tenente Vieiras and Tenente Suqua; that’s 80 men. My men are experienced; some of them have fought in Congo before, men who chased Mobutu away. I know of your reputation." Capitão Kiluanje pointed at António’s missing left leg. But here you’ll be more a burden than a help. I respect you, but stay out of my way as I complete my mission.

Their eyes remained locked until the jeep bumped over a tree root. António watched the sober men in the truck ahead, then turned back to Capitão Kiluanje. 

I don’t know you. I don’t know you until I see you kill. 

IDIOTS!

The vehicles were arrayed in a semicircle, half in and out of foliage. The men sat or stood in squads, cleaning rifles and grenade launchers, talking, or eating. And smoking! The commanders discussed strategy at the jeep. The sun was past the horizon, and the canopy above them cast darkness over ground that beneath the leaves and undergrowth was still absorbing the moisture from a recent sprinkle. Here and there soldiers held covert lights in order to see better. 

Besides the commotion the forest was silent. Even with only one leg on the ground and the thick darkness of the foliage António sensed that the land swung upwards nearby. They were sitting in a perfect ambush site. António pushed himself to Capitão Kiluanje.

"Ah, Majore Cazombo. Good, we need input. Let me go over our plan." The Captain swung his laminated map around towards António. Capitão Kiluanje pointed at a circled area. Here is their camp, eight kilometers to the east. At 0400 tomorrow we’ll head out. We’ll get at most two more kilometers with the vehicles. After that, it’s a hard trek, but we can make it in less than an hour. Vieiras’s platoon will lead; we’ll be with Suqua’s men. By 0530, we’ll have their camp surrounded here, here, and here to avoid any crossfire. My orders are to wipe them out, so we give them no warning and no chance to surrender or escape. Now what I need to know from you is what kind of capabilities—

We can’t stay here, António said. They know we’re here. We’re too close, and they may already have us surrounded. You won’t attack at dawn: we’ll all be dead at dawn!

The three officers stared at António in shock. Then: a muffled laugh from Tenente Vieiras, and a less muffled one from Tenente Suqua. Between the shadows, António saw Capitão Kiluanje’s jaw tighten. He held out his hand, and Tenente Vieiras placed a radio in it. He sent three clicks through the radio. A few seconds later, two clicks returned.

Where are they? Capitão Kiluanje whispered into the radio.

"Still here, Capitão, came the delayed response. No new activity. People come and go. We think they’re getting supplies. But right now everyone is accounted for: 21 men. Watching the white one right now, repairing a motor on a truck. Out."

Capitão Kiluanje handed the radio back to his Lieutenant. "Majore Cazombo, you’ll stay here when we head out to attack. I’ll leave two men with you. You can’t make useful progress on crutches anyway. If we need your assistance at any point, we’ll send for you." Capitão Kiluanje saluted. "Goodnight, Majore."

The officers joined their men at the center of the camp. António rubbed his forehead. He pushed himself to an edge from which he could see the entire camp and sank down beside a tree. He watched the soldiers gather in units to receive orders, then return to their spaces. Confident faces, set jaws, prepared weapons, and an aura of strength: this was the Angolan army, forged in decades of war. Some of them too young to have known anything but war. 

António had no doubt that Capitão Kiluanje was right about his men’s experience. But what António saw before him were dead men.

DULCIE’S SKIN DRIPPED with sweat and blood, dried tears streaked from her eyes, matted hair stuck to her scalp. Mouth gagged, arms bound on the chair arms, legs chafed, she strained every muscle to free herself. Dulcie flinched, red eyes wide, a howl choked in her throat when the knife slit her shoulder, her neck, then down…

António awoke and was blinded by light. I overslept—they left without me. But it wasn’t sunlight: it was artificial light, from the vehicles, from lights strung through the foliage, from lamps everywhere, powered by the low rumble of the trucks. 

António’s face was pillowed by, undergrowth and dirt. He pushed himself erect. The air was as thick as soup, but at least the ground was drier, except in a few scattered spots where he saw softer dirt. The forest had more life than the night before, and António could hear the occasional howl amidst the bird and insect calls. Most of the men were asleep. Guards walked the perimeter, checked vehicles, peered into foliage. Capitão Kiluanje and his Lieutenants were already up. The Captain turned left and right then back to António as if to say we’re still here, still alive. 

You’re an idiot. Pik Wousson can see this spot in his sleep lit up like a dance club. And the noise from those stupid trucks…Something about the trucks tugged at António’s mind. Staring at them didn’t help. He checked his watch: 0352. They were running late for the raid. He shook his head: this is the Angolan army.

THE MEN WERE woken up. By 0415, everyone was downing a small ration of cold food. António accepted the food he was offered, washed it down with watery coffee. He saw Capitão Kiluanje send three clicks with his radio and receive two in response. At least he didn’t speak over the radio. By 0422, the men had begun loading the vehicles with their weapons, and jumping into the trucks, which groaned from the load. António was mulling how to convince Capitão Kiluanje to let him join the raid when he saw something: a tiny flash, a glint. 

António frowned. Automatically, his mind took stock. Soldiers climbing into the trucks. Soldiers gathering weapons. Officers passing out orders. Lights turning off. Is that spot on the ground the wrong color? Through the canopy, a lighter blue in the sky. The forest headed towards dawn suddenly silent.

And then, more felt than heard, the fss of a rocket launch. António knew instantly where it was headed.

"Down. Off the trucks. Down!"

Faces turned towards him. No time to register surprise before a truck exploded into flames. Screams. An ammunition crate exploded. Soldiers scrambled from the truck. Bodies were dragged away. Uniforms and trees were ablaze. Capitão Kiluanje ran towards António.

Fss: another rocket. Men ran for the trees.

No! António pointed, and Capitão Kiluanje turned to see. Stop them! There are— The claymore explosion knocked António and Capitão Kiluanje off their feet, splattering body pieces over them. Freshly dug dirt, António spat.

And then shooting; but not from the men—towards the men. António automatically reached to his side for the gun that wasn’t there.

The shooting galvanized Capitão Kiluanje. He jumped up. Suqua. Defensive cordon. Suppression fire to the east. Vieiras. Take two squads and find those fuckers! Beware anti-personnel.

As soon as Tenente Vieiras was able to bark orders and organize enough men to redeploy among the trees, António heard the deafening sound of an HK machine gun. Half of Vieiras’s men were mowed down immediately, while others dove for cover. Screams for help were multiplying in every direction, dirt, bark and shredded leaves shot everywhere, the sickening smell of burnt flesh and blood; confusion sunk its claws in.

Boum! Someone had decided to hide under the remaining truck. It rose then crashed against a tree, a burning skeleton of its former self. Still more men fell when Tenente Suqua’s defensive cordon fired on them in panic before the officer regained control of his men.

ANTÓNIO GRABBED A rifle from the nearest casualty and pushed himself upright. They’re nearby! he yelled to Capitão Kiluanje. Someone‘s directing that mortar fire and firing that machine gun. António shot the remaining lights. Flare!

Capitão Kiluanje ran for the jeep. Seconds later a flare shot eastward beneath the canopy and then exploded with light. Just a few meters from the camp lay several soldiers. In the far distance two shadows ran between the trees. There! António shouted. 

He let off a quick burst. The darkness thickened. António swore. Then fss, fss, two more rockets descended on the camp. Someone screamed, I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! just as the first rocket smashed meters in front of the burning trucks, digging up a crater and smashing dirt in all directions. The second rocket hit just as the machine gun started up again, closer, from a different direction.

The men had abandoned their weapons. They cowered on the ground or crawled as far as they dared into the trees. António leaned heavily on a single crutch, listened to the firing. In his periphery he saw Capitão Kiluanje jerk and fall. A man lying half a meter from António grunted as bullets slammed into him. António blocked everything and concentrated. I know you’re out there, I can feel you. By instinct he aimed his rifle and fired another short burst. 

The machine gun stopped. António listened. The silence dragged on. Even the wounded were quiet. No rockets, no shooting. Nothing in the forest but the echoes of fading violence. The paling sky, burning trees, and fires consuming the trucks did little to dispel the darkness.

António was startled by a hand shaking his arm. 

HIS VISION EXPANDED from the tunnel into the trees out to the wide periphery of a camp filled with dead and wounded. He barely recognized the mud and blood covered face before him. "Majore, the Capitão has been shot!" Tenente Vieiras said. Come on. He wants you.

Tenente Vieiras half carried António the few meters to where Capitão Kiluanje lay, tended by his men. António and Tenente Vieiras knelt beside the Captain. António immediately saw the gaping wound in Capitão Kiluanje’s belly. Another bullet had torn through the right side of his chest. There was a gash on his neck. The large man coughed blood with each breath.

How did you know? Capitão Kiluanje struggled to get out the words. Why didn’t you warn us? António tapped his stump. Capitão Kiluanje nodded, understanding. Then, remembering, he tried to reach for the radio in Tenente Vieiras’s belt. Tenente Vieiras grabbed the radio and sent out three clicks. A few seconds later, they heard two clicks in response. Then two more, and two more, and more, laughter from the distant enemy.

António. Capitão Kiluanje licked his lips. You have to—these cowards—refuse… 

He reached down, searched, gripped his gun, pushed it towards António. Capitão Kiluanje’s eyes pleaded with António. António took the gun and stood. He looked around the camp. Dead bodies being pulled to one side, wounded to another. Men returning from the trees. Three destroyed trucks. Blood, metal, shrapnel, unused weapons. He turned back. Capitão Kiluanje nodded once. António aimed the gun and fired. 

Tenente Vieiras reached for his own gun, his face flush with anger, then stopped. He stared at his dead commander, the pain draining away from the Captain’s face. "You did the right thing, Majore," Tenente Vieiras said, squeezing António’s shoulder.

António shut his eyes to block the tears. I’ve heard those words too many times.

Part II: Fighting for the Comandante

Chapter 3: The Hero Joins the Revolution

April 1968

IT WAS RAINING, but that didn’t deter António, Angola’s newest hero, as he waited to speak with the short man with eyeglasses, red beret, and red notebook. The man tapped his rifle and shook his notebook for emphasis as he spoke with a group of four young men, drifting between Luena and Portuguese.

A real MPLA representative! Right here in Muangai.

In his excitement, António barely noticed that the man stood under the short roof of the village Elder’s house, but kept the young men out in the rain. António did notice his furtive glances towards the other thatch-roofed homes surrounding the Elder’s larger home, and towards the trees and scrub surrounding the village. But that was understandable coming from a cautious revolutionary alone in a strange village. What António really cared about was the man’s neat gray uniform.

Right, he heard the man say. I’ll meet you later. Those who are ready can follow me. But only if you’re serious!

Finally. António and his two companions, Balumuka and Joseido, approached the MPLA representative. My, but you’re a big young man! the man with the eyeglasses said up to António. Are there more like you. How old are you?

Sixteen! He stood a little straighter. At his size, António could pass for eighteen, but it was better to be safe, especially since his voice often squeaked. Balumuka and Joseido looked at each other, but quickly covered their surprise.

Hm, the man said. You’re big, but you have a baby face. What about you two. How old are you?

Sixteen, said the skinny and lanky Balumuka.

Seventeen, Joseido said in his adult sounding baritone.

Alright, the man said. Those are good ages. You’re the kind of young men we need. He beckoned the three young men closer, but not too close. "Do you understand why I’m here? Do you know about the struggle? Do you