| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Scouting |
| Date: | Mon, 3 Nov 1997 18:11:06 +0000 |
+++++routing via tacstation Aden-42
>>>>>[TO: Jason Lynch Archive
This is getting creepy. The gap between what intel's reporting and
what's on the ground is growing.
+++++begin video
The Scarab is following the road - not the wide, metalled main highway,
but a dusty track that must be hellish during the rains. Rounding a
curve, a small village is visible, a dozen or so buildings scattered
along the track. One decrepit UAZ jeep, its rear deck expanded with a
jury-rigged flatbed of timbers, is the only vehicle visible. The three
people visible look at the oncoming Scarab and flee into their huts, as
Lynch approaches.
"Not good." He says thoughtfully, as he parks next to the UAZ and climbs
out, retrieving his rifle. Passing the ancient jeep, he pauses to lean
in and check the ignition. Turning the key, the solenoid gives only a
weak click.
"Okay. Let's see what we can do." Turning back to the Scarab, he
extracts a pair of jumper cables, rapidly setting them up: the scout
vehicle's engine starts easily, and Lynch checks the connections
carefully (the UAZ's engine is dirty, but the Russian-built vehicle is
designed to survive far worse abuse than mere neglect) before turning
the ignition on.
The oil and generator lights glow, but the fuel gauge hardly moves: so
before he tries the starter, Lynch adds five gallons of diesel from one
of the jerrycans strapped to the Scarab's rear. Looking up, he sees
several faces in doorways and windows: they vanish when he waves.
The UAZ's engine turns over reluctantly at first, then faster, and then
begins to fire raggedly. Lynch pauses to ease the load on the battery,
letting it absorb current from the Scarab for the lifetime of one
cigarette, before cranking it again. This time, after a dozen
revolutions, the old diesel condescends to run under its own power:
three cylinders firing, then the fourth grumpily agrees to cut in.
Lynch turns back to the huts and gives a thumbs-up, then disconnects the
jumper cables. As he turns back from stowing them, he sees an old man
approaching. He's followed at a distance by a teenage girl armed with an
old but functional G3 rifle (twin to the weapon Lynch carries, except
his is a scoped and short-barrelled carbine version) who watches him
warily.
"Thank you, for helping us." The old man bows his head. "How may we
repay you?" The old man's Arabic is subtitled for those who don't speak
it.
"It was a small gift, no more. I would only ask to speak with you
awhile." Lynch replies, in the same language: he doesn't sound like a
native, but his command of the language is serviceable.
"Then come with me, and share what hospitality we can offer." The
elderly man indicates his home. "I am Hassan bin Kimur."
"Jason Lynch. Could no-one else repair your vehicle?"
"It was Nasim's vehicle, and he kept it running. But he follows Akbar
and his Jihad now." The old man grimaces and the girl - still keeping
the rifle not-quite-aimed at Lynch - spits. "He would have brought it to
be part of Akbar's force, but they did not want an old farm truck, so
they took the fuel and left it." He holds the door and Lynch steps
inside.
The house is what you'd expect from villagers who scratch a livelihood
from this hard land. No electricity, no running water. Light, in the
daytime, is the window: at night it's oil lamps. The furnishings are
few, and mostly old: wood is rare here, and fuel for the fire is dried
animal dung.
At a gesture from the man, the young woman slings the rifle and moves
off, and returns with two pieces of unleavened bread and two earthenware
beakers of water, which she hands to the two men as they sit.
"Blessings upon this house and my hosts." Lynch says formally, before
taking a bite of the bread and washing it down with the water. The old
man, too, eats and drinks a little before he speaks.
"So, you are not with Akbar. You wish to learn of him?"
"Please."
The old man finishes his water. "They are the scum of the earth. Akbar
takes the Prophet's teachings and warps them to suit his own ends. His
men are mere bandits, yet now with their new weapons they crow and caper
as if they were trained soldiers like yourself."
"You flatter me."
"I was a soldier once. I see in your face, in your bearing, in the way
you carry your rifle, that you have stared into the face of battle many
times. You are a warrior." The old man nods.
"New weapons. What does that mean?"
"Rifles. Rocket launchers. Vehicles. Many, many weapons, more even than
the Government troops."
This obviously gives Lynch pause. "This far south?"
"For weeks now. Their noise shakes the valleys sometimes."
There is a long pause.
"Local support. How is he liked around here?"
"He is not. He draws the young men from their homes with his twisted
gospel and promises of war and loot and plunder: and when they return,
they do so to steal and to rape. In Akbar's world, women are chattels to
be used at will. Yasmina had to live in the hills for two weeks, after
Nazim returned and claimed her. She slashed his face and escaped. Others
were less fortunate. They took many of the sheep and the goats, all the
food they could find, and anything else that took their fancy. Winter
will be hard for us now. If Akbar falls, many will bless you."
Lynch nods, calmly. "I see. We will bear that in mind."
The old man sighs. "I do not like to beg, but we must. Could you, or
your comrades at the mines, sell us some fuel? We can repay you, but not
for some weeks: now the truck is running we can trade again, but to do
so we must have fuel."
+++++end video
That's the key part.
Remember to pass that request on when I get back to the camp. We shoud
be able to spare some JP-8.
Worrying. Very worrying. I've got tank tracks, signs of military
presence, locals telling me these Yemeni Jihad cowboys are in the area.
Yet NRO have missed it completely.
Fits what we got from Monolith, though: they know the pass schedule for
the Keyhole birds and make sure they're not under one.
No chance of reangling a satellite, let alone changing an orbit. Not
until something blows up, meaning "too late". Okay, a few more days of
scouting, see what I can turn up now I know what I'm looking for.
This worries me.]<<<<<
-- 1Lt J R W Lynch <17:59:42/11-03-58>
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
