The Red Jungle

A Story by George Dowling

Chapter 1 for Anton Malakhov, a former Soviet soldier traveling through the Kongo jungle

There was nothing left but burnt ruins and blackened earth. A thick layer of smog blanketed the remnants and filled Anton’s lungs. He took his hands off the dingy motorcycle’s handles to cover his mouth while coughing. He looked around to see if there was anyone left, maybe in hiding, but remembered that the sight of a white man might frighten any survivors. The only white man they had seen before was Anton himself when he first led a small contingent of rebel troops to liberate that same village from the Manikongo, the former ruler of the Kingdom of Kongo. There was little doubt in his mind that the villagers were visited by soldiers from the Confederate States of America.

He slowly made his way through the village, keeping his head low and footsteps light. The ash on the ground cracked under his feet as he entered what was left of one of the smaller mudbrick huts. Inside, what few possessions were owned by the inhabitant were broken and scattered on the floor. It had clearly been raided, and Anton knew that exploring other huts would paint the same picture. He left the hut and walked back to the dirt road he had followed to get to the village. He crouched to the ground and inspected one of the many large footprints in the dirt. His ears were open, but he finally accepted there was no one in the village but him.

It was the third one he visited since sneaking past Confederate patrols. All three had been razed to the ground and it’s people missing. The ones that flooded into the capital city of M’Banza, still controlled by the Revolution for now, had fled their homes when they heard rumors of an American invasion. None had seen an American soldier. Anton rubbed the wedding band on his right ring finger as he told himself he did not resign his command and head south alone to do recon. He came for a different reason. He came to find his wife.

Almost two years before, Lieutenant Anton Malakhov, fresh from participating in successful Soviet operations against the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, was sent to speak with a young African student, Joseph Laurent, from the Kongo Kingdom studying in Paris. Laurent had authored a book that spoke in vivid detail about the exploitation of the villagers and their enslavement for the profit of the Monarchy. In his book, he called for the absolute destruction of the Monarchy and the transformation of the country in a modernized republic. The book, titled “What Shall Be Done?”, caught the attention of the Kremlin and they sent Anton to meet with him. A short time later, Malakhov was commanding a wing of Laurent’s rebel army in the jungle.

So much had changed since then. Like the villages he passed through, the Revolution was crumbling. Manikongo loyalists were linking up with American units and were regaining territory lost to Laurent and Malakhov. And thats’ where the rumors began. Entire village populations were disappearing. When the reports grew, and communications from the city of Libango were cut, Anton only had one choice.

Aneesa had stayed behind when Anton went north to help Laurent take M’Banza. He wanted her to wait for the fighting to be over. After the Revolution, she would join him in M’Banza and then move with him to Smolensk, Russia. When he married her, he wore his Red Army uniform. Now he wore american-made jeans and a brown button up that would breath in the african heat. If discovered in the countryside, he could claim to be a displaced tourist.

There was nothing else to see. Anton parked the bike under a tree and took a sheet from his backpack. He cursed at himself as he entered the ruined hut and settled down. The thought of pausing from his journey made his stomach twist, but he was in enemy territory and he needed to stay sharp. He took off the belt that held his sidearm and a ballistic knife with the hammer and sickle etched into the handle and curled up on the floor. He forced himself to sleep. In his dreams, all he could see was Aneesa’s face.

The first time he saw her was when his men marched into the city of Libango on a typical unbearably hot morning after defeating Manikongo forces. The city was a massive cluster of villages with several dozen real buildings built by Portuguese architects. The homes were the same mudbrick huts with straw roofs. Malakhov’s men entered the city with Anton himself riding in the back of an open roofed jeep. Curious citizens lined the streets as the rebels raised the new flag over the Governor’s palace. Aneesa was one of the spectators and she was the only one not afraid to stare into Anton’s eye.

After seizing control of the city, Malakhov ordered Laurent’s plan of modernization be carried out. The roads were to be cleaned and maintained until Laurent’s government could afford to pave them. Makeshift schools and hospitals were established and anyone who knew how to read and write was called upon to begin educating the population. A citizen council was put in place to oversee the projects. Malakhov himself took only an inspectional role, and would tour the city to ensure everything was being carried out as it should. On one such inspection, he entered one of the schools and peered into the classrooms. He recognized Aneesa and unconsciously entered the classroom to be faced by a sea of wide eyed children. His uniform, neatly gelled hair, and clean shaven face that bore the cold sharp features of a Russian, must have stood exceptionally strange to a group of young African children. They stood like statues, and Anton wasn’t sure how to react. Aneesa broke the tension by placing herself between him and the class.

She smiled and said, “Class, please say hello to Brother Malakhov! He’s visiting our country from Russia!”

The children greeted him in shaky unison. Anton returned the greeting with a nod before turning to the young school teacher with something resembling a smile. He remembered her stare from when his army liberated Libango from the Manikongo. She kept her hair in a wrap and wore a simple dress of matching color. Her skin was more bronze than brown and her teeth were in surprisingly good shape for that part of the world. It hit Anton right then that she was beautiful. He tried to speak but his tongue wouldn’t push out his words. Aneesa suppressed a laugh and covered her mouth. Anton cleared his throat and casually peered around the classroom.

“Well then, everything appears to be in order, Sister. Carry on the good work.” Anton said as he stepped back towards the door. She thanked him for a visit and kept up her unrelenting smile that made him not want to go. When he left the classroom, his pale skin now matched the color of his country’s flag.

The humid morning coated a layer of moisture on Anton’s face as he came to. His skin felt slimy and his growing facial hair was beginning to irritate the skin on his neck. He desperately wanted to shave, but dared not risk an open wound in the jungle. He rolled up the thin blanket and brought it back out to his motorcycle.

The sun was still rising and the ground sloshing under his feet. Anton sipped water from his canteen as he checked his location against the map he had brought with him. Libango was less than a day’s ride if he rode it straight through, but the sound of artillery in the distance told him he better be watching his step. He was now entering heavy American occupied territory.

A white man in Africa was not a usual sight, especially in the Kongo. Even one heading to a city close to the shore away from the fighting would not arouse much suspicion. What was worrying Anton was they he was the only human being he had seen in over a day. No refugees or fleeing soldiers.

The dirt road led into the thick jungle. The trees twisted together and their branches were tied together by tangled vines. Malakhov’s motorcycle echoed through the wilderness. The road became more even as it moved through the trees.

He saw a figure standing in the distance in the middle of the road. He slowed down as the man wouldn’t budge, even with a motorcycle coming towards him. He was wearing grey camo and holding a rifle. The soldier took a firing stance and aimed at Anton. Anton slowed down his approach and came to a smooth halt. He kept his eyes on the Confederate soldier and his ears to the trees. There was no way the American was alone.

“State your business.” the American said in the world famous southern drawl. Anton spit the first answer that came to his mind. A bullet would have been faster than a second. “I am trying to reach the coast. The rebels occupy the north.”

“What you doing in this country to start with?”

Anton gulped. He already had the soldier sized up and thought of several ways to take him out if need be, but escaping his hidden friends might prove an issue.

“Honeymooning with my wife.”

“In a warzone?”

Another soldier emerged, “he’s Russian. Can’t you tell by his accent? This place is probably a paradise compared to where they is from.”

“We came before the war. We got separated when the fighting started. Please. I need to get to her.” Anton said. Growing up, he had always been a terrible liar, but he found he could bend the truth anyway he needed. The two soldiers stared at him just as rays of sunshine squeezing through the trees reflected against several more rifle barrels.

“I believe him.” the second soldier said. The first, the shorter of the two, gave a cockeyed stare to Malakhov.

“There’s not much left down that way. Just more of our boys.”

Anton sighed, “what about Libango?”

“I don’t know the names of anything in this damn country. If your wife is there, she should be safe.”

Anton forced a smile. They must have thought his wife was also a Russian, which he was counting on. If she had been, then the soldier’s words would most likely be true. But the Confederacy did not have a great track record with colored populations.

“Move along,” the soldier said. Anton nodded in thanks as he revved up the motorcycle. He took off and held his breath as he put distance between himself and the Americans. He had to be careful now. There was a chance other soldiers would not be as friendly.

The red and green countryside of the Kongo held such a beauty that anyone gazing on it could forget that a war was going on. The hills rolled together like still waves and it’s dry air came as a relief to the humidity soaked Anton. It was his third time seeing the place. The first time he passed through, he did so with his soldiers. When he passed the second time, it was with Joseph Laurent who came to fetch him from Libango to bring him to M’Banza. The third time now he was alone. He stopped his motorcycle and took a moment to breathe and admire the sight. The sparse green that appeared in patches over the distance brought back memories of Afghanistan. Both countries had horizons that were dominated by the vivid colors of the landscape, unlike the Russian horizons which always had too much gray.

And still, there were no herds of refugees. No one coming from where he had to go. Even if the Confederacy were the most benevolent of rulers, there should still be someone trying to get away.

And finally, there was.

An african woman came running frantically out of a small cluster of trees. Her clothes were in tatters and she was trying to desperately hold them on as she ran. Anton could see she was crying. He fought the instinct to run to her. She could be Aneesa, he thought to himself, but he had to stay objective. As she got closer, he could see that he did not know her. She saw him and ran to him. Her face was covered in blood and her own tears left clear skin where they washed it away. She shouted something in the native kikongo language and she threw himself at his feet. She gripped him tightly while whimpering, “Brother Malakhov.”

He was too busy to answer. Following her were four hulking figures wearing navy blue uniforms that seemed to have no regard for blending in their environment. All of them had scraggly beards that would make a Russian drill sergeant scream until blue in the face. Their long strides rapidly closed the distance between them and Anton. And he recognized what they were.

They were members of the Stonewall Brigade, elite soldiers of the Confederate Army. Whatever reputation was enjoyed by the Russian Spetsnatz was overshadowed these berzerkers. Anton had only heard stories of them, and he felt a chill go down his spine. He gathered his composure and remembered one of the first lessons the Red Army taught him; every man bleeds.

“Sorry about that. Damn negro women sure can book it,” the first one, and the smallest of the four. Smallest being relative. The four of them stood in front of Anton and the cowering woman now.

“Just step back from her and we’ll be out your hair in a jiffy.” the second one said. Anton looked down at the poor woman at his feet. I have to help her, he thought to himself.

“She is pretty,” Anton said with a forced smirk, “maybe I could have some alone time with her?”

The woman gave a horrified look while he maintained a blank stare. The first of the Stonewalls patted him on the shoulder.

“This here is ours.” he said. The girl let go of Anton’s legs and looked frantically for a way out. Anton placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but then looked up into his eyes and saw he meant no harm.

“Get behind me.” Anton said to her. As soon as the words left his lips, the Stonewalls stepped in closer with balled fists. They hadn’t brought their rifles. Anton could draw both his gun and his knife in the blink of an eye, so he knew he had the advantage. It may have been unfair, but it wasn’t his problem.

“Seems like this Rooski got jungle fever.” the second one said. “Let me get a crack at him,” the third one said. The fourth stood silent, and Anton kept him firmly in his peripheral vision.

“Maybe we should bring him back with us. Get to know him a bit.” The first one said in a mocking tone. The four of them closed in on Anton, whose feet were firmly planted where he stood. He looked each one in the eye and scoffed.

“You’ll die trying.”