Ghost of Africa Read online

  GHOST OF AFRICA

  A Novel

  By Chuck Van Soye

  with Darren Van Soye

  This book is a work of fiction. Except for historical content portrayed in the Preface, names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events, locales, persons living or dead, businesses, or companies is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, scan or transmit this book, e-book version or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without written permission from the author.

  Ghost of Africa copyright ©2019 by Charles C. Van Soye

  ISBN: 9781099219993

  Independently published

  KEY WEST, FLORIDA

  GHOST OF AFRICA

  Heaps of thanks and praise to fellow members of the Key West Writers Guild for their critiquing skills, guidance and encouragement. And gratitude for the quiet patience of my sweet wife for enduring my all-too-often absences shackled to the computer desk.

  Prologue

  Town of Atiak, Amaru District, Northern Region, Uganda, April 20, 1995, 5:00 am

  As dawn draws near, faint traces of skylight begin to filter through the trees and bramble blocking the eastern horizon. A waking baby’s cry blends in with the cacophony of nighttime jungle sounds. Unexpected movements through bush openings reveal human shadows stealthily moving toward the village center. A woman screams within one of the scattered outskirt homesteads. Then a single gunshot breaks the remaining silence, and Atiak’s entire population awakens with a start.

  Volleys of gunfire erupt from hundreds of attacking Lord’s Resistance Army guerillas intent on overrunning and plundering the town. Return fire from local home guards rakes the surrounding brush, felling some of the incoming marauders. Regular Ugandan Army (UPDF) soldiers, assigned to help defend the town against the LRA, quickly join the fight. The battle continues for hours, as shouts, screams and grenade explosions intersperse the gunfire. Bodies of civilians caught in the fusillade soon dot the town streets and terrain, along with those of attacking and defending fighters.

  Most of the populace hide for protection from the flying lead, some in their flimsy huts, a few jumping into newly dug pit latrines, and others behind trees or fleeing into the bush.

  “Look out,” yells one defender to another, “they’re behind you.”

  A child pleads with his dead mother, “Mommy, mommy, get up. Help me; my tummy’s bleeding. It hurts.”

  Final hand-to-hand combat with machetes and knives finish off the wounded and any defenders not fleeing into the bush. Atiak has been captured, and the real nightmare is set to begin.

  Surviving Atiak civilians are rounded up by the victorious LRA, then separated into two groups. Women and young children are left to watch in horror, and are then forced to applaud as 300 men and small boys are executed en masse. Selected older boys and girls are compelled to join the departing LRA warriors as combatants and sex slaves.

  Preface

  The account of atrocities depicted in the forgoing Prologue is factual and historical. In 1995, Joseph Kony, founder and leader of the LRA, was indicted for war crimes and crimes against humanity by the International Criminal Court in The Hague, Netherlands. Since then, ongoing efforts by the Ugandan, Congolese and African Union forces, supported by a United Nations Mission and UN peacekeepers, have seriously eroded much of the LRA’s capacity. Yet Kony has avoided capture or death. He’s a ghost. His whereabouts today are uncertain, but he and his greatly diminished army are still operating in and around the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Central African Republic, or South Sudan.

  What follows in the chapters of this book, though inspired by the real-life LRA, is not factual. It’s pure fiction. To avoid confusion between the real world and fictional one, this novel’s evil protagonist has been renamed Jacob Kunga. The heroic protagonist is Bret Lee, an unassuming middle-aged America. He could very well be your friendly next door neighbor who’s a Professor of Chemical Engineering at the University of Maryland. You’d never know it, but he’s also a part-time spy of sorts. He’s no 007, but thanks to his superior intellect and the few CIA skills he acquired, Bret and his lovely American-born Chinese wife, Chu-lin, have been infrequently persuaded to undertake critical, though unofficial, secret assignments. Like finding and capturing Jacob Kunga.

  Chapter One

  Lee Residence, 275 Diston Rd., Adelphi, MD

  From his backyard vegetable garden, Bret Lee shouted, “Hey Chu, was that the landline ringing?”

  “Yes, it’s for you, hon,” she yelled back through the screen door.

  “Who is it?” he asked as he entered the kitchen, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans.

  “You won’t believe this,” she whispered as she handed him the phone, “but it sounds like Julien.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Bret. Julien here. How’s my favorite citizen spy?”

  Good grief, now what? he wondered. “Doing well, thanks. Haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “Been only a year and a half since I arranged that plane ride for you two from Damascus to Athens.”

  “Our thanks again, Boss. That Greek Island cruise you set up was a great experience. You doing okay?”

  “Bret, I’d really like to talk with you in my office. If you’ve got the time this week, can you come to DC?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. What’s up?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “How about Wednesday?” he suggested while glancing at the wall calendar.

  “Wednesday would be fine. I’ll expect you about ten.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  Shrugging as he turned towards Chu, “Did you hear that? Gotta go to Washington to meet with Julien.”

  “Yeah, I guess you owe it to him. I’m not all that happy, though. Remember, the last time he invited you to his office, you ended up all bloody in the hands of Venezuela’s secret police.”

  “That was a long time ago, Babe. I’ll just politely listen to him. I won’t do anything stupid again. By the way, you sure look cute in that apron. What’s cooking?”

  * * *

  After parking his Jeep in the lot of the contemporary two-story Delta Intelligence Services building near Washington’s Beltway, Bret entered, showed his ID, and was escorted upstairs to Julien’s cushy office by a uniformed guard. As always, Julien, though portly, was smartly dressed in a navy-blue business suit, white shirt and power tie. Oops, thought Bret, I should have remembered to have worn at least an open-collar dress shirt.

  While greeting him and offering a padded chair, Julien inquired, “Are you familiar with the name, Jacob Kunga?”

  “Rings a bell, but can’t place him.”

  Julien returned to his chair behind a huge oak desk and continued, “About thirty years ago, he formed a resistance group against government oppression in Uganda. Eventually, his rag-tag group of guerillas swelled in numbers, and became known as the Lord’s Resistance Army. Over time, that fighting force degenerated into a ruthless cult of thousands of killers, with Kunga as the supreme commander and spiritual head.”

  Bret hesitated, then said, “Um, yeah. I vaguely recall hearing about it on some news program ages ago. Something about the U.S. putting the LRA onto a terrorist list because of a bunch of African massacres and other atrocities.”

  “Right. Your memory’s not bad.”

  “Sounds like ancient history though.”

  “Not so ancient, Bret. As recently as 2014, Obama sent several CV-22 Osprey aircraft, along with 150 Special Ops advisors, to help find and stop Kunga. And even Trump’
s transition team investigated whether the U.S. should continue to be involved in the effort.

  “Today, Kunga’s still a fugitive. His LRA, though now numbering only 100-400 fighters, continues killing, raping and raising mayhem in several African nations.”

  “So-o-o?” Bret prompted.

  Julien arose from his desk chair, walked to the nearest window, opened the vertical blinds and stared silently into daylight space for at least a minute. He turned towards Bret, and stated, “Things have suddenly gotten more dangerous. There’s word circulating in intelligence circles that Kunga wants to buy a dozen shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. Bret, there’s over fifty different airlines that daily overfly that LRA territory.”

  “Scary. Perhaps in light of his diminished army, he sees acquisition and deployment of SAMs as a path to renewed personal significance.”

  “Possibly. If he gets them, though, a heap of bad news for Africa lies ahead.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, Julien, but what’s that likelihood got to do with me?”

  “My worry is that a few unscrupulous arms dealers might actually be willing to risk negotiations with that murderer.”

  “Dumb move! They’d risk cutting their own throats dealing with a guy like that.”

  “Probably, but if one of those arms dealers tramping around the African bush to find Kunga was really an agent setting him up for capture . . .”

  Bret jumped to his feet, “Whoa, you’re not thinking that I . . .“

  “Exactly. You’re the only guy I’ve ever met who could pull it off.”

  “No way. There’s gotta be a slew of CIA or Interpol guys or Navy Seals that could do it.”

  “None of them have ever escaped from an ISIS jail. You managed that feat.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “None of them personally convinced the President of Syria to take refuge in Brazil, like you did.”

  “But . . .”

  “Not one has ever blocked the Chinese army from potentially knocking off the President of Venezuela. But you pulled that off too.”

  “Hey Julien, I’m a college professor, damn it. And a husband and a father whose family wants him around.”

  Julien silently walked back to his desk and sat down, reached into a drawer and lifted out a three-inch pile of folders and documents, holding them out for his visitor to grasp. Bret, shaking his head ‘No,’ got up and started turning as if to leave.

  “Come on, take this package of reading material, go home and think about it. Talk it over with Chu.”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to pull off something like that. I’ve never even been to Africa.”

  “Just think about it. Think about the lives you might save, the justice you could trigger.”

  After a long silence, the two men staring at each other, Bret said, “It ain’t gonna happen, Julien. But just so you let me outta here as your friend, I’ll take your damn package home. Might be good tinder to start tonight’s barbeque fire.”

  “Drive safely.”

  Chapter Two

  Lee Residence, 275 Diston Rd., Adelphi, MD

  Begin another dangerous international escapade? Bret pondered, fighting his way through stalled Washington rush-hour traffic. While physically intent on reaching the gridlock-free Capital Beltway north, his mental debate continued, Hell no! Why risk my neck again?

  By the time he turned south off 495 onto Hampshire Avenue, he added to his resolve, Not enough time to start another mission. I’m committed to teach the Fall term in just a few weeks. The University of Maryland might well be unwilling to give me a leave of absence so soon after the last one.

  Pulling into the Adelphi driveway, Bret concluded his internal debate: Chu would put her foot down anyway. That’s the excuse I’ll give Julien: Chu won’t let me get involved.

  Bret entered through the exterior door of their home into the lush greenery-bordered atrium, and announced “I’m back,” as he opened the sliding glass door to the interior.

  “Come to the kitchen, I want to hear all about your meeting.” The wafting aroma of cooking stew left no doubt where the kitchen was. He walked in.

  Chu-lin, although wearing loose faded cleaning clothes that hid her hourglass figure, and lacking her usual makeup and neatly styled hair, still looked terrific through Bret’s eyes. She grabbed him as he walked in, gave him a big hug and happy kiss. “What did Julien want to talk about?”

  “Oh, he was hoping I’d be willing to undertake another crazy super-spy assignment. This one in the African jungle. Chasing down some fugitive from the past.”

  “Oh no. That’s frightening. Why you?”

  “Well, as I understood his concern, ever since 1987 there’s been this Lord’s Resistance Army run by a bad guy, Jacob Kunga, and Julien proposed that I. . .”

  She interrupted, “I’ve heard of him. Kunga uses children as soldiers to commit atrocities! I read all about him on a charity website called ‘Invisible Children.’”

  “Julien didn’t go into any details like that. He just told me to read this pile of paper. It looks like a typical Washington brief. Probably all about past LRA activities and crimes. Frankly, he wasn’t too concerned about the history. He just wanted to keep Kunga from getting surface-to-air missiles that might be used to shoot down airliners.”

  “Are you gonna read it?” she asked.

  “I basically told him I wasn’t interested, but agreed to at least look it over. Maybe tomorrow. Right now it’s almost 8:00, and I want to watch the news. Care to join me?”

  “No, I’m deciding on a shorter hair style. I have an appointment tomorrow for a cut and blow dry.”

  Bret wisely didn’t comment on that statement, but was thinking, I hope she doesn’t decide to go short; I love her flowing black hair just the way it is.

  For about ten minutes, Chu continued flipping through the pages of “ShortStyles” magazine. Then she paused, got up and for several minutes stared at the darkness outside the window behind her. She turned around, walked a few steps to stand directly in front of the TV, blocking Bret’s view of Fox News.

  “Children! Children killing other children,” she blurted. “That guy’s a monster.”

  “Julien said the Ugandan Army’s been unable to capture or kill him. Neither have UN troops nor our Special Forces. Now be a sweetheart, and step aside so I can watch my program.”

  At the next commercial, Chu continued, “I’ve been thinking. What if Kunga does get those missiles? Hundreds of innocent airline passengers die too? No wonder Julien’s looking for a way to stop him. Maybe we should consider helping.”

  “Wait a minute. A year ago while I was waiting to get my head chopped off by ISIS, you were scared sick you’d never see me again. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes . . . but children!”

  “Now you want me to risk my life again? And what’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

  “Hon, we could cooperate. I could do the grunt work, while you do all the spy stuff.”

  He shook his head, hardly believing what he was hearing. But he was beginning to suspect his life was about to make another radical turn.

  * * *

  The following evening, Bret read through Julien’s dossier. Most of it appeared to be historic material about Kunga and the LRA. But one page addressed Kunga’s recent appearances. His most likely current camp location was near the town of Bosobonga in northern Democratic Republic of Congo.

  Great, thought Bret, Bosobonga? Might as well be on the moon.

  After reading the entire package, he threw it on the coffee table, and looked across the room at Chu-lin. “I don’t want to do it. But . . . let’s pretend we decide to do this. Could you really picture me as an international arms dealer?”

  “Why not? But not as Bret Lee. You’re too well known as ‘the man in the ISIS orange jumpsuit.’ That photo was on the front page of all the world’s major newspapers.”

  “Yeah, but imagine that I did locate Kunga in some jungle
hideout. Could I come across today as a bona fide dealer?”

  She hesitated responding, trying first to analyze the reality of such a confrontation. “Probably not,” she uttered. “He’d likely be very suspicious of a tall handsome blonde American.”

  Smiling at the compliment, and then concluding, “I agree. Kunga’s evaded capture since 1987, even with the whole damn world after him. He’s obviously smart, and likely has spies all over Africa. Maybe beyond. So I’d clearly need a dealer’s reputation and trusted recommendations preceding my arrival.

  “In a nutshell, I’d have to build a whole new identity. I’d have to develop friendships among arms dealers, some of them likely bad guys. Familiarity with all current missile designs would be another must. Particularly with whatever model I’d be ‘marketing’ to Kunga.”

  “Piece of cake,” she giggled.

  “Come on. Get real, Chu. Do we really want to get involved? Think about the time and effort we’d require just to get prepared.”

  “I’m scared, but it might well be the most significant thing we could do with that time.”

  “Are you seriously willing to put up with your husband pursuing a violent murdering fanatic around Africa?”

  “Honestly, even at this stage of the pretend proposal, I wince at the thought.”

  “And what’s the plan to capture Kunga if I ever did find him?”

  Chu-lin shrugged her shoulders.

  “We both need to do some serious thinking for a few days.”

  “Agreed. Hon, it’s almost bedtime. How about a nightcap?”

  “Flutter those gorgeous green eyes at me like that and I’ll agree to anything; two Courvoisier’s coming up.”

  Chapter Three

  Lee Residence, 275 Diston Rd., Adelphi, MD

  The Lees’ cozy Adelphi home featured a unique mealtime nook that protruded out from the kitchen wall several feet into the heavily treed and landscaped back yard. Fitted with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, the nook gave Bret a feeling of floating in the wilderness. It was wonderfully peaceful and insulated from household activities and noise. A quiet retreat to savor meals and relish soft-spoken conversation. Except when someone’s cell phone rang. Which happened with Bret’s, mid-breakfast the following morning. It was Julien.