Chapter 1

"Slow is smooth, smooth is fast," Jon whispered to himself, consciously slowing his breathing, and trying to calm his racing pulse. A bead of sweat dripped down from his right brow, and he blinked hard. Shimmering heat waves danced across the 1600 meters of desert, causing the North Sudanese truck to quiver in his scope. Jon shifted his weight a little, and panned the heavy Cheytac rifle across the convoy. A quick burst of static sounded in his left ear. "Wile E, any change?" A half smile crossed his lips. "Negative, Roadrunner, they're still working on that flat tire." "Roger, Wile E." Jon hadn't known Roadrunner for very long, but had quickly developed a respect for the big man who slipped slowly and silently across the desert floor. "Lord, please keep Hakim safe," Jon prayed quietly. The two had been out scouting in the desert together for 2 weeks, and this was the first patrol they had run across. It was never a good thing to find north Sudanese troops ranging in the borderlands. Although they were not the most dangerous thing in the desert, they were always up to no good. Hakim knew this firsthand.

Jon had met one of Hakim's nieces, a once beautiful young girl of 12. She was caught by a band of 70 men as they swarmed their small village in trucks mounted with russian DSHK .50 HMG's (Heavy Machine Guns). Most of the village didn't survive. Hakim returned to his village 2 days later with mail from the city and parts for the village well pump, to find most of the village burned to the ground and his sister's child the only surviving member of their family. Mutilated and abused, she clung to life with ferocious tenacity. That had been 3 long, bloody years ago. Many were the villages torched and ravaged by either the north sudanese army itself, or more often the Janjaweed, Islamo-Arabic raiders crisscrossing the Darfur region and the border with Chad. While Omar al-Bashir's Muslim regime in Khartoum denied official association with the Janjaweed any time the UN bothered to ask, everyone on the ground knew the truth. [note: documents would later show conclusively that elements of the Janjaweed were armed by the Khartoum government starting at least as far back as 1999, and several instances of Janjaweed units seeking and obtaining permission from key elements in the North Sudanese Army to attack specific targets have been verified by multiple independent sources.]

Jon had never fired a shot at a human being before, and wasn't anxious to start now – certainly not at high-noon in the middle of an African desert, 28 kilometers from the nearest village. He and Roadrunner were on their own, their rifles and prayers the only hedge between a 60 man raiding party and 185 innocent villagers. Jon shifted his focus to the edge of the small convoy, pressed the PTT (press-to-talk) key on his left glove, and spoke softly, "Roadrunner, you have three, repeat three men fifteen meters to your northeast, and two men twenty meters to your south." One click of static, and Jon knew Hakim understood. Jon keyed the mic again, "Go, or no go?" The two clicks of static meant no, and Jon nervously tapped his trigger finger on the side of the receiver, slowly panning his scope across the convoy, mentally reviewing his range card, making windage and drop calculations and prioritizing targets, waiting for Hakim to signal a change in plans. 30 long, hot, tension filled minutes later, the trucks rumbled back to life, and Hakim sent a quick, "These guys return to base, Wile E. No threat now." Jon breathed a deep sigh of relief, and watched the hostile government troops take a northern turn at the dusty crossroads 2 klicks from his position.