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.”
