3 September 1997, West Africa, "Free Zone" north of Sangar Town
Gunfire ripped through the morning fog, not scattered bursts but sheets of rhythmic automatic fire, laced with the dull thump of mortar rounds slamming into the ground and exploding.
Mamadou stood in the bed of his modified pickup, binoculars to his eyes, his face dark as iron.
What he saw weren't the ragged uniforms of the Government Forces, but a mass of people dressed in mismatched gear, red armbands tied around their biceps—armed men from neighboring tribes, and a group of outsiders he'd never seen before, lighter-skinned, with clearly trained tactical movements.
They were storming the newly built checkpoint on the outskirts of Sangar Town.
The mortars and RPG-29s he'd paid a fortune to buy from Hendrick were now pounding his own defensive line. The rounds were landing with brutal accuracy; the first salvo knocked out two of his machine-gun nests.
