We’re The Good Guys: The Zoran Rebellions, Part I

Jackie’s brain was like mush. An inconsistent mess of memories and moments. He laid on the couch at an unknown time, staring at the ceiling as the TV glare was too much for him. The hits to the head were getting to him. Ashley urged him to rest, please. Rossi was on the move. He couldn’t afford to wait long. If only it were so simple. His left hand was cut through like butter, hanging by a thread, bandaged up. His head and ribs were wrapped, and nose fixed as much as it could.

The news was on. As he saw the lights dance from the TV, he could only hear what they were reporting on the situation. They couldn’t find him on cameras, and Rossi was asked for comment as he and Q were business partners in the public eye. Jackie could hear that monster’s voice.

“We’re doing as much as we can to stop this UV from senselessly killing innocent people. I…”

Jackie tuned him out, his mind forcing him to relive a memory. The dangers of a false narrative, and what could happen if somebody was motivated enough to take action.

March 22nd, 2003. Near Kangata, Zora.

Four men hunched over a TV in a makeshift HQ near the country’s capital. It was already hot and humid, as Zoran springs are always relentless. The TV blared news of President Bush’s announcement two days ago. Something they’ve known would happen for a long time.

“My fellow citizens, at this hour, American and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm Iraq, to free its people and to defend the world from grave danger. On my orders, coalition forces have begun striking selected targets of military importance to undermine Saddam Hussein's ability to wage war. These are opening stages of what will be a broad and concerted campaign.”

Watching that TV was the four operatives chosen to assassinate Albain. All of them go by callsigns to make sure they are not identified as American soldiers. There was Major Kyle Tann or “Mother,” Commander Thomas Shepard or “Ram,” Private Bill Johnson or “TD (Touchdown),” and of course Private Jackie White, aka “Rook.” They arrived in Zora back in late January of that year, and met up with forces the government approved to replace the BLP once they collapsed without Albain. These forces Jackie didn’t like. The group was called the African Allied Front, or AAF. They were headed by Munidi Kipto, a general who could be described as a warlord.

Munidi was most known for his work in the Sierra Leone Civil War. He was brutal, merciless, and bloodthirsty. Jackie saw the pictures of his handiwork. He didn’t like working with him, or the AAF. What did the BLP do on that scale?

Bill watched the announcement closely. He was a big white man with a shaven head and broad shoulders. He slapped his knee. “Fuck yeah! Damn, I should be there, I wanna go to Iraq.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Bill,” said Sheapard. The commander was the eldest, nearing fifty, but he was very wise and willing to join this top secret mission. With his graying locks of hair and patchy beard, he spoke well and carefully. “I can only imagine what it's gonna be like over there.”

Bill sighed. “Yeah, but my brothers are over there. I want to help.”

Jackie had to speak up. “Wait. Why are we attacking Iraq?”

“Come on, Jack. The terrorists are over there. Al-Qaeda lives there!” Bill exclaimed.

“No,” Jackie responded. “Based on what? Not all brown people live in Iraq.”

“Well, they got WMDs. We gotta stop that.”

“Do we have any proof they have WMDs?”

“Alright, alright,” Kyle said, interrupting. Tann was always no-nonsense. His jaw was always clenched, with his army cut always ready for action. “This ain’t debate night. Clock’s ticking. They’re counting on us to finish the mission and get to Iraq as quickly as possible. Jackie. You talked to Kipto yet?”

Jackie nodded. “Yup. Our warlord got intel he’s in the capital building. No real defenses. With our luck and numbers this should be an easy night.”

Kyle clapped. “Great. Get dressed. Remember your callsigns, people. No real names.”

Jackie was in his tent, getting dressed in his olive shirt, light bulletproof armor, knee and elbow pads, jeans, boots, and a backwards cap with shades to complete the generic mercenary look. That was the lie. He was simply a soldier of fortune, not affiliated with America. The file on Albain remained on his table. He scanned over it once more, questioning why they wanted him dead so bad.

Born Jean-Paul Watson, he was taken as an infant to Britain to avoid Zora during its civil war in the 70s. He was given to a rich white family, giving him the name Jean-Paul. Watson was highly educated, even graduating from Oxford. The document questions why he then moved back home in 1995 and started the Black Liberation Party in 1997. Jackie scanned the pages. It made no sense. He didn’t see anything wrong with Albain, and worse was he was far too afraid to say anything. He kept it in and remained a good soldier. Listen, don’t think.

Walking out the tent into the early afternoon, he felt the thickness of the air that day, nearing another bout of rain soon. The camp was bustling with AAF soldiers training or relaxing. The blood merchants did their best to pretend to be human. It almost fooled Jackie. Almost. He saw Munidi next to a jeep, smoking. He was bigger than most, with a crooked grin showing his gold tooth. Tann approached Munidi and said something Jackie couldn’t hear. Munidi’s ears flicked with excitement. “Men!” He yelled. “On your feet! We got blood to spill!”

With pleasure, the AAF men ran over to get armed and dangerous, with US weapons that were “lost” a few months ago. This irked Jackie, but he kept his mouth shut. Good soldier, remember? The four Americans hopped in an armored humvee and rode into the city proper. Kangata was near the coast, the best looking city in the country, or it used to be. It was a warzone, leveled and filled with remnants of missiles. The ghost of beauty still lingered in the capital, but she was losing the fight day after day. American bombardment and AAF looting proved to be the killer. They slowly dove into downtown, running over rubble and bodies. Jackie looked out the window, seeing the bodies of men, women, and children. Shot or crushed, it was a bad way to go regardless. The smell of ash found its way to his nose, annoying Jackie.

“What’s the plan, Mother?” Ram asked.

“From what Munidi told us, the capital building is vulnerable. All we gotta do is assist the AAF and get a confirmed kill on Albain. He’s not to be captured.”

They arrived at the capital building, with all the other AAF vehicles lined up surrounding the building, resembling the White House in terms of structure. Munidi was behind one of them looking over the place with binoculars. Mother walked up to Munidi. “What’s up? No one’s home?”

“Albain should be here,” Munidi said frustrated. “Unless I was deceived. Damn that intel.”

“Well, if nothing's here then–” Mother was interrupted by an RPG hitting a jeep nearby, exploding loudly. TD, Ram, and Rook fell to the ground, asphalt and car parts flying everywhere. The BLP laid a trap. All at once, the soldiers fired from the building, cutting down the AAF soldiers like nothing. The Americans recovered and ran for cover. Another RPG rocked the ground, taking out a humvee.

Rook and TD took shots at whatever moved, but the gunfire was too much. They had heavy MGs all over the windows. But if Albain was in there, they had to figure it out. Under fire, Mother crouched between what remained of the cars and found a battered but stable Munidi and made some orders. “Get your men to charge! We need distractions!” He turned to his crew. “Me and Ram are gonna use the humvees to draw fire. Rook and TD storm the house with some of Munidi’s people. We need them jumpy and nervous. Got it?”

Rook and TD nodded. “Yes sir!”

The team split. Mother and Ram crawled into the nearest humvee with a working MG. Mother mounted it and began firing back, the heavy thumping loudly cracking the building apart with the large bullets. Ram grabbed the grenade launcher from the backseat and used it to crack a few windows open, exposing the BLP soldiers to gunfire. TD, armed with a pump-action shotgun, and Rook, slinging his assault rifle around, ran with some of the AAF soldiers to the side of the building. All Rook could hear was weapons and explosions. The only real proof this wasn’t a nightmare was the ground shaking due to the walls crumbling behind him thanks to Ram. BLP soldiers waited for them, firing at the first enemies they saw. After a short exchange, Rook was able to pop one in the head and the other was taken out by an AAF man.

TD used his shotgun to shoot the hinge out the door and kicked it down, leading the charge with his close quarters weapon. The capital building was filled with dust and rubble, telling a story mere words couldn’t. The once clean checkered pattern floors were stained with dirt, blood, and rocks. TD and the rest of the army marched, the chaos of the outside muted once they got in. The BLP saw them as they reached the main stairs and opened fire. Rook scrambled for cover, avoiding getting shot for another moment. TD fired his shotgun, making a man’s chest explode and tumble down the stairs. Rook fire at the nearest soldier he could see in the haze of dust and sunlight. Once the shooting stopped, the army charged upstairs and began cleaning up, killing the rest of the BLP soldiers in the building, but it was hardly a victory.

No Albain. The four were in the prime minister’s office. Ram was smoking, looking at the body of the former leader, clearly killed by the BLP. TD was sitting and cleaning his shotgun. Rook looked out the window, questioning the brutality of it all. Mother was pacing back and fourth, pissed. “Motherfucker. We let that warlord piece of shit risk our lives on shit intel?” Mother said.

“Hm,” Ram hummed. “Better than nothing. We took out a pocket of them, but they will come back. They always do.”

This was getting sillier by the minute. Jackie had some questions. And little answers to go off on.