The walls of the concrete shack were pocked with bullet holes from an older war, remnants of the Belgian retreat.
A single oil lamp lit the room, casting jittery shadows on the rusted rifles stacked in the corner and the freshly oiled Garand pattern laid out on the table.
The air smelled of sweat, cordite, and diesel.
"They'll pass through the Groveroute before sunrise," said Captain Makono, pointing at a faded topographical map of the jungle highway.
His voice was calm, confident. "Six Werwolf vehicles, light armor. Standard mineral escort package. This is our chance."
His lieutenant, a wiry man named Tamba, cracked his knuckles. "No surrender, no prisoners. Just like they did to us in Kivu."
Makono nodded. "We hit them hard. Ambush from both ridges. Burn the lead truck, mine the tail. Our scouts are in the trees. We'll know when they leave Kasaï station."
An American leaned in the corner of the room, silent until now.
