TIA

Unlike the snowy chill that had just settled over Moscow's high latitudes, the Mozambique Channel still simmered under a blazing summer sun. Warm ocean currents surrounded the island nation, and the relentless heat made it nearly impossible to keep one's eyes open. For the GRU soldiers, hardened by Siberia's brutal winters, this sudden sweltering heat was an unwelcome shock.

Sergeant Gordon was among the first to step onto this foreign land. Displaced by the Far East disarmament, he had no choice but to leave his hometown behind and join a private military contractor headed to Africa—tasked with so-called mineral resource security. As the sole man in his family, Gordon's wife and daughter depended on his earnings for survival.

The company paid thirty dollars a day—an enviable sum for a former Soviet soldier. No wonder men were willing to risk their lives to cross oceans and fight in distant conflict zones.

Here, helmets were replaced by simple baseball caps stamped with a brown bear paw—their only uniform aside from civilian clothes and company-issued IDs. Gordon took off his cap, slipped inside a photo of his wife and daughter, then placed it carefully back on his head.

"Lisa, my dear baby, Daddy will come back safe," he whispered, smiling as he recalled the tearful farewell. The cruise ship was docking, and Gordon braced himself to enter this unknown world. Finish the mission, collect the reward, return home.

"Welcome to TIA. Hope this doesn't become your nightmare, Sergeant," said a cold-faced team leader beside him. Roughly Gordon's age, Captain Alkasha was tasked with leading the newcomers.

"What does TIA mean, Captain?" Gordon asked.

Alkasha turned, his sharp brows slicing over piercing eyes. "Africa. A paradise for adventurers... and a land of contradictions. Backwardness and barbarism, yes. But also the birthplace of gold and jewels. The meaning depends on how you look at it."

The ship moored, and the soldiers—cramped and restless for two weeks—finally set foot on solid ground. They rushed off, eager to greet this strange continent. Only Gordon noticed the grim soldiers standing guard by containers, guns ready, alert in a serious battle formation.

"This place isn't peaceful," Gordon observed. "The security's over the top."

"Just days ago, the National Independence Movement attacked here—three killed, two badly wounded," Alkasha explained, cigarette dangling from his left hand. "The government shut down the port. Rebels are creeping into the southern provinces. The opposition controls most of the north, and now they're stirring trouble near the capital. We defend mines and keep order in the cities, waiting for the signal to counterattack."

The bus rolled through towns marked by despair—bullet-riddled walls, barbed wire barricades, government soldiers clutching Kalashnikovs with hostile eyes, and civilians ducking into alleys, flashing obscene gestures at the convoy.

Alkasha briefed them on Africa's brutal rules of engagement: "Shoot only when fired upon. No exceptions. But here, civilians with guns could be enemies. Especially child soldiers. No mercy for them. They're trained killers, and a bullet from a child is deadlier than one from a grown man."

Gordon raised his hand. "When do we finish and go home?"

"Next week, we hope. A decapitation operation to take out the leadership. If successful, the rest will crumble," Alkasha said with typical Soviet bluntness. "Why send troops? Drop some thermobaric bombs and that's it. But officially, we maintain law and order."

The convoy reached "Punishment" camp—an overseas Soviet base with armored vehicles, Gazelle attack helicopters, and rows of BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles. This heavy firepower was a terrifying sight for a country ill-equipped for modern warfare.

The rebels—the Mozambique Resistance Front—controlled a third of the land. Without the 1984 Nkomati Agreement, the government would have been mired in civil war longer. The brutal conflict had claimed over a million lives.

Passing Sorafa, Gordon saw the Maratic diamond mine—a steady source of "blood diamonds" financing the opposition. Laborers submerged calves in muddy pits, washing gravel in hopes of diamonds. Child soldiers patrolled with rusty AK47s, their ferocious faces hauntingly young.

Gordon and Alkasha watched the mine from the jungle. Alkasha whispered, "If you want to live a hundred years, don't touch diamonds. It's an old African proverb about greed and misery."

Gordon eyed the armed children, pity stirring inside. Alkasha spat on the ground. "No pity for these killing machines. Shoot if they raise their guns. No surrender here."

"Wait until they shoot first?" Gordon asked.

"That's for adults. Not child soldiers. They're drugged, ruthless. We give them a bullet."

Alkasha warned, "You've only been here a week. You can't imagine the horrors these kids have done."

—

At the mine, Drakama, leader of the resistance, inspected operations with his cruel general Moreira. "The government's weakening. Soon we'll gain more weapons, more power."

Suddenly, a soldier reported approaching helicopters. "Government army has helicopters?"

Drakama's disbelief turned to panic. "Evacuate! Take the diamonds!"

Two Hind helicopters unleashed rocket fire on the mine. Explosions turned earth and bodies into burning wreckage. Survivors fleeing were cut down by machine guns. Panic and chaos consumed the battlefield.

"Sniper, take out Drakama, but don't kill him," Colonel Kozie ordered.

The sniper's shot hit Drakama's calf. The leader collapsed, while his men panicked, falling one by one to precise gunfire.

Colonel Kozie surveyed the devastation, smiling at the diamond storage building. The mission's prize—blood diamonds—awaited inside.