Joint Task Force #4: Africa (16 page)

“General Ojo, are you okay?” Ezeji asked.

“Of course, he is okay,” Kabaka snapped. “The Americans failed to kill him again.” He faced Ojo and ran his eyes up and down the leader of the African National Army. “He is invulnerable. Nothing can kill our leader; not even the Americans with their superior technology.”

“Maybe it was the Americans,” Ojo admitted. “If it were the Americans—”

“No one else was flying above us!” Kabaka interrupted. “It is time to realize that regardless of what your time schedule and plans are for dealing with the Western powers, they know of them. Why would they try to kill you— and us,” he continued, pounding his chest, “When you have taken great pains to avoid antagonizing them?”

“I refuse to believe—”

Ezeji sighed. “For once, as much as I hate to, I must agree with General Kabaka, General Ojo. I can fathom neither reason nor rationale for the unprovoked attack. You have returned their missionaries unharmed. You have avoided intruding into Liberia, though we did chase the Jihadists into the Cote D’Ivoire. Every signal you have sent them has been one of appeasement.”

“And we are marching along the northern border of Liberia inside the country of Guinea. Guinea! Another American ally in this so-called war against terrorism!” Kabaka’s voice rose and his hands gesticulated dramatically. “It isn’t terrorism the Westerners led by the Americans want
to see dead. It is any form of resistance against their might.” Kabaka pounded his chest several times. “We are a threat to their omnipotence. We present the people with options—”

“I think we should take care of the wounded,” Ojo said, raising his hand palm out toward the angry general. Maybe Kabaka was right and he, Ojo, had been blinded by his own arrogance. Arrogance in believing he could outsmart the superpowers that surround Africa. America may be a hyperpower, as the French call it, but for poverty-ridden Africa, any country that could muster a foreign policy was a superpower, and all Ojo wanted, or so he told himself, was to pave a better way of life for his people. Of course, being in charge was always the preferable way of making improvements.

“The wounded are dead,” Kabaka said. “All the grace, good manners, and ‘oohing and awing’ won’t save someone with open wounds from the angry, invisible man-eaters that ride the winds in our hot, humid jungles.” The angry Kabaka turned sideways and waved an arm in a broad sweep around them. “Look! Look closely. There is an arm there; a leg near that bush; and, that round bushy thing surrounded by wet clay was moment’s ago someone’s head.” He looked at Ezeji. “General Ezeji, you are lucky your head wound is shallow. Mud packed across it may protect you.”

“We must do what we must do.”

Kabaka turned angrily to Ojo and drew his long machete. “I will take care of the wounded. They will only slow us down.”

Ojo nearly took a step back. He drew his right arm closer to his side, slipping his finger onto the trigger of the AK-47. He wondered for a moment if the safety was on or off? He nearly looked down.

“I will deal with the wounded,” Kabaka said, waving the
machete back and forth in front of him. “Better a quick, unexpected death than the long, drawn-out pain as they watch the red snake creep upward from their wounds toward their heads and heart.”

Ojo’s eyes widened. Kill the very men who had followed him throughout the growing campaign?

Ezeji reached forward and touched Ojo for a moment before dropping his hand. “For once Kabaka is right, General. We do not have the medicine or the means to save these men. We only have a man who once worked in a hospital, and I doubt he was more than an orderly.”

“How many—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“General Kabaka, if we are going to kill our own men, then we should know how many.”

Darin, who had stood respectfully a few feet behind Ojo during the entire exchange, stepped up to the three generals. “General Ojo, there are no more than ten who are wounded. Most should be able to have their wounds bandaged and rejoin the army. If we kill these ten, then there are ten dead. If we allow them to live and even one lives, then that is one more soldier for the ANA.”

“They would slow us down,” Kabaka argued.

“They are my soldiers!” Darin rebutted. “I will take care of them.”

“Then they are the walking dead who will slow us down and bring more walking dead into their ranks.”

“They will be able to do their jobs.”

“You are wrong,” Kabaka said, taking a step toward Darin.

Ojo saw Darin glance at the machete.

“And you are too young and inexperienced to recognize when death is a valuable weapon for an army, even when ministered from within.”

“Do not mistake my youth for inexperience, General Kabaka, nor my patience for cowardice. I have been fighting since I was five. War is my mother and father. It is the family that has embraced me since I learned not to wet my pants.” He nodded toward the machete. “Is that for the wounded? Are you going to be the one who wields it? Do you think those who are wounded, but alert will lay there, stretch their necks, and say thanks?” He turned to Ojo. “General, if we kill our own men, word will filter first through the nearer troops before erupting like a burst dam to flood through the will of the remaining soldiers.”

“Kabaka is right. They will slow us down and if they become worse, then we have little choice but to leave them.” Ezeji turned to Kabaka. “Rather than killing them, we should make them comfortable and leave them behind to either heal or die.”

“Then you would subject them to a slow torture. My men are used to killing—”

“No one should be used to killing,” Ezeji objected. “Killing is what we do because we have to do it. Not because we want to do it.”

“Enough,” Ojo said. “Leave this argument for another time. We will leave the wounded. Ahead of us waits the coming battle with Abu Alhaul, and though the Americans may—I say may—have been the ones who fired on us, we will not allow it to distract us from our plans. We will discuss this later.”

OJO SIPPED THE HOT CUP OF TEA. KABAKA HAD FAILED TO
return to his command as Ojo had expected; instead the man had remained, even making the tea himself as they reconstituted their forces for the continued march forward. Ezeji had sent a runner to his soldiers telling them of the
plans, estimating a couple of hours for them to arrive. With Ojo’s blessing he had given the captain leading the soldiers permission to make his own decision to engage the Arabs, if it appeared they might escape the trap.

The thrashing of bushes drew their attention. Child warriors who were the point men for the ANA emerged through the brush. A young warrior, his eyes wide and his breath coming in quick gasps, stopped in front of Ojo. Ojo waited for several seconds, while the lad regained his breath, recognizing the admiration in the young African’s eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Parachutes, General Ojo. Three men landed in the trees several kilometers to the north, ahead of us. They are trapped, caught on the limbs. I hurried back—”

“I will go,” Kabaka said, stepping toward the young boy. “I will go, and what I bring back will be a lesson to those who stand in our way.”

Ojo reached out and touched Kabaka on the arm, causing the angry general to jump. “No, we will move forward toward Abu Alhaul. We will leave whoever is in the parachutes to their fate. I will not allow something else to distract us. Those in the trees are trapped. Leave them. They are out of our path, and we will avoid them as we move forward.”

“They are Americans! Americans like the ones sent into Cote D’Ivoire to kill you; only this time they have miscalculated. They are trapped in the trees so we won’t have to worry about where they are. We know why they are here. We can kill them from afar. They will never see who killed them or even know the bullets are coming until they enter their bodies.”

“Why do you want to kill them, Kabaka?” Ezeji said, his voice tight. “Is it because you like to kill and you want to draw the Americans onto us?”

The cries of the wounded had long ago passed into moans as one casualty after another died, leaving only those who would live and those so seriously wounded that they were unconscious, thereby stifling their screams. Why would the Americans fire on him? If the Americans saw how they dealt with Jihadists, they would embrace the ANA as one of their allies.

“This is another attempt to kill Ojo—General Ojo, just as they tried two months ago in Cote D’Ivoire,” Kabaka finally answered. “If it hadn’t been for my men routing them and forcing them to flee in their helicopter, they would still be chasing us.”

Ojo turned to the forward scout. “Did you leave anyone to watch the men in the parachutes?”

“No, sir, General. The others continued to track the Arabs and sent me back to warn General Ojo.”

“Go back and rejoin your group. Tell them to leave the men in the parachutes alone. If they become free and you discover them following you, then lose them.”

The boy stood straight, his lower lip pushed against the upper. “If they follow, General, we can kill them. We are not afraid.”

Ojo shook his head. “No, if they follow, then you are to avoid them. Don’t take them prisoner and don’t fight them. Those in the parachutes are professionals. They are what the Americans call Special Forces, but here they are on our ground and we know the jungles; they don’t, so we will avoid them until they tire and call for the helicopter to take them out.”

“For this, my general,” Kabaka said, his voice soft, “you are wrong. Allow me to kill them. I will go with the boy and kill the Americans after we have questioned them. Allowing them to live only endangers ourselves and our soldiers. If these are allowed to leave, they will be back,
and they will continue to return until they capture or kill you.”

Ojo nodded. “You may be right, but if we kill them, then there will be no negotiating with the Americans. Leaving them alive, we may have a chance to show them our value to their prolonged war on terrorism, and then they will leave us alone.”

Ezeji nodded. “That is sage wisdom, General Ojo. You may be right. Dead Americans do not encourage Americans to talk, but it does cause them to commit others to ensure that future Americans will not die. The American Special Forces are smart. They will be able to tell that we knew of their dilemma and didn’t take advantage of it. That is a point in our favor.”

Kabaka sheaved the machete. “I am returning to my troops.” He pointed at Ojo and Ezeji. “In this you are wrong. Patience may not be cowardice, but it can lead to a wrong decision and, in this, you are wrong. Patience isn’t called for now. Decisive—” He made chopping motions with his hands. “—death is the answer. A dead person never argues with a live one, but a dead person sends his own message to those who sent him.”

“Enough, General Kabaka. Thank you for your insight. Let’s hope you are wrong.”

“In this, I am not,” Kabaka said, his voice shaking with anger. “You are endangering our army by allowing them to live.” He turned, motioned his men to follow, and marched back the way he had come.

“He is dangerous,” Ezeji mumbled.

“Yes, he is dangerous. I wonder sometimes if that is good or bad, but most times I believe that anger has its own place in combat, and a soldier can’t say whether that anger was good or bad until afterwards.”

“By then it is too late,” Ezeji said.

“By then it is too late,” Ojo agreed, nodding.

Ojo turned to the young warrior. “You have your orders, soldier. Return to your unit and tell them of my decision.”

KABAKA WAITED UNTIL THE JUNGLE GROWTH HID THEM
from Ojo and Ezeji. He turned to one of his lieutenants. “We cannot allow our great leader to imperil himself at the advice of a Nigerian traitor. I want a squad of our young warriors to take the Americans. It matters little to me whether we take them alive or dead. If alive, then they are to hold them for me.” He laughed and patted the top of his khaki short pants. “I need a new belt.”

CHAPTER 7

”ROCKY! YOU OKAY?” MACGAMMON SHOUTED, HIS VOICE
shaking.

Rockdale turned his head left, motion below him causing him to look down. There was MacGammon about twenty feet below swinging from the suspension lines of the tangled parachute.

“I’m okay!” he shouted back. Rockdale ran his hands over his body, feeling through the aches of the landing, making sure nothing was broken.
Where in the hell were they?
Satisfied nothing was broken, he glanced around, assessing their situation. A huge tree limb jutted out directly below—he estimated three feet—running toward the group of limbs of the nearby tree where MacGammon’s parachute was entangled. Rockdale craned his head forward, but vegetation hid the ground. Be hell if they had to stay in the trees until rescue arrived because they couldn’t get down.
Where are the others?
He wondered. The EP-3E had
twenty-four souls on board. He saw three of them drifting close together as they came down. The other person was Carson. You couldn’t mistake the Texan’s lanky frame for anyone else.
But, where in the hell was Carson?
Rockdale turned his head as far to each side as possible. The helmet hindered a clear view and obstructed peripheral vision. Rockdale knew Carson could be right behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see him until he removed his helmet. He looked down. He thought he could see the ground, if that patch of brown was the ground and not a bunch of dead leaves or limbs. Either way, it was too far down to unsnap and drop.

“Hey, you see Stetson?” Rockdale shouted, using Carson’s nickname.

“Hell, Rocky! I can barely see me. I’m surrounded by leaves. How far from the ground are we?”

“Too far to drop.”

MacGammon had been close enough for Rockdale to recognize as they descended. His descent was right behind MacGammon, and Carson had been slightly off to his right.

“Rocky! What the hell are we going to do?”

“I think,” he said, drawing out the reply. “We’ll wait here a while and see if we can contact anyone. Stetson has to be around here someplace.”

“I didn’t see him when we came down.”

“He was with us. I was behind you and he was to my right.”

“I came through first. Did you see where he hit?”

“I had my eyes shut.” A few second later MacGammon added. “I thought we were going to die. I didn’t see anyone else bail out. You don’t suppose?”

“Blew up?” Rockdale shook his head. Aircraft on which
you flew never blew up. They blew up on other people. “No!” he shouted. “No, I don’t think it blew up.”

Rockdale released his grip on the suspension lines and let his harness hold him up. If the parachute was going to come loose and send him falling through the maze of intertwined limbs and vines, it would have already done so. He pulled his flight gloves off and jammed them in the large flight-suit pocket on his right leg. He’d need those later. He unsnapped the pouch on his survival vest, the SV-2, and pulled out the AN/PRC-90 survival beacon. They may call this small radio a survival beacon, but it was a dual-channel rescue transmitter with a two-way voice and Morse-code capability. Every aircrewman had one of these expensive radios in their survival vests. And none of them knew Morse code, though the Navy in its infinite wisdom had embossed the dots and dashes for Morse code on the side of the PRC-90. It was a joke with Rockdale and the others that by the time they could send a Morse message, they would have been rescued. By the time they found someone who could copy Morse code, they’d be retired and drawing Social Security.

He turned the PRC-90 around, making sure it wasn’t broken. This little box was the key to them being rescued. Between him and MacGammon, the batteries should last a couple of weeks.
Two weeks!
The thought sent a moment of panic zipping through him. No way they’d be here that long, he told himself, feeling his heart rate subside a bit.

“Hey, Mac!” he called. “I’m going to try to raise someone on the PRC-90. You keep yours off.”

“Why should I keep mine off?”

Rockdale nodded. MacGammon was returning to normal. “Because we don’t want both of us using up our batteries at the same time.”

“Okay, but—”

Rockdale switched on the radio, turned the switch to voice, and hit the press-to-talk button. “Anyone this station, anyone this station, this is Rockdale, aircrewman Ranger 20. Do you read?” He released the button. The PRC-90 couldn’t receive when the button was pushed down. Every fifteen minutes, Rockdale thought, as he mentally reviewed the rescue lessons for using the PRC-90. The first few hours, he would transmit every fifteen minutes in the hope of making contact with friendly forces. On the hour; fifteen minutes after the hour; then, on the half-hour and fifteen minutes to the hour. Trained for communications like clockwork. Throughout the U.S. Navy, the fives and zeros of the clock drove rescue time.

He looked upward, not expecting to see anything, but checking each block of what he recalled of Search, Escape, Evasion, and Rescue—SEER training. Know your surroundings; know your location; know which way to friendly forces. Friendly forces, there’s a concept he hoped never to have to think about except during briefings. The nearest friendly forces, as far as Rockdale could recall, was somewhere south of them in Liberia and even then, two young white boys stumbling out of the jungles might be seen more as an opportunity than a rescue. Rockdale pushed the button again and repeated the call several times. Somewhere out here in the jungle, the NRL boys had detected two groups of humans running around. They wouldn’t be friendly forces.

Rockdale clamped his eyes shut, forcing the tears back. This wasn’t why he joined the Navy. He should have listened to his mother and aunt, gone on to the local community college, and hope some college scout saw him playing basketball. But, no . . . he had to do his duty like his father and join the Navy.

He opened his eyes, a sigh escaping at the same time. The scope of survival overwhelmed him. What did Chief Razi say about surviving? Understand the big picture, but concentrate on one thing at a time. The big picture will scare the shit out of you. Razi was partially right. The scope of their situation did scare him, but the scope depressed him by making him realize they might never make it out of here.

Suddenly, the static blared from the PRC-90, followed by a voice. “Rockdale, this is Lieutenant Commander Peeters. Do you read me?”

Rockdale’s eyes widened. He nearly dropped the radio when he heard the voice. Gripping the PRC-90 tighter, he took a couple of deep breaths, worrying his voice would betray his momentary lapse of control. Then, he pressed the talk button. “Yes, sir. We do. There is Petty Officer MacGammon and me here. We saw one other with us. It was Petty Officer Carson, sir, but he must have landed nearby. We can’t see him. Where are you, Commander? Are the others with you?”

“Rockdale, the rest of us didn’t bail out. We’re still on Ranger-20. The last gasps of the extinguisher put out the engine fire so we halted bailout, but not before four of you jumped. Lacey is still on board.”

“I only saw three parachutes, Commander.”

“The fourth person is Chief Razi. He bailed out after we halted bailout. He jumped to help you guys. So, he’s somewhere nearby, also.”

Rockdale pressed the talk button, shutting off Peeters. “Sir, I didn’t see him coming down, so I didn’t see the chief land. Right now, we aren’t in a situation yet where we can search for anyone. Both our parachutes are snagged in trees.”

“Carson, this is Peeters. Do you hear me?”

Rockdale waited, not wanting to miss Carson’s reply.
Seconds passed without hearing anything on the radio other than Peeters continuing call to the third member of what Rockdale was beginning to consider as their group.

“Chief Razi, this is Lieutenant Commander Peeters, I have you fivers. Rockdale, did you hear the chief’s transmission?”

Rockdale raised the radio and put it against his ear. He hadn’t heard Razi reply to Peeters. He pushed the talk button. “No, sir. I didn’t hear nothing. I guess you have comms with the chief?”

“That’s right. Listen up, Chief; Rockdale and MacGammon are northwest of your position about miles. I have comms with both you and Rockdale, but he can’t hear you. Means you’re out of range of each other. At three miles, even with the jungle, you two should be able to hear each other. Rockdale and MacGammon are tangled up in some trees. Petty Officer Carson is down somewhere in their vicinity, but his situation is unknown at this time.”

“Rocky, what in the hell is going on?” MacGammon shouted.

Rockdale looked down at the very moment MacGammon’s parachute ripped free, sending his friend falling another dozen feet before the nylon canopy entangled itself on other limbs.

“Jesus Christ! I have got to get the hell out of this tree!”

“Rockdale, the chief is heading your way, but doesn’t know how long it will take. What is your situation?”

“Sir, we’re still tangled up in the trees. We can’t see the ground. At least, I can’t tell if it’s the ground I see. MacGammon’s parachute just ripped free and he fell—” He stopped. Wasn’t much else he could tell the officer who was buzzing holes in the sky above him. Wasn’t as if these radios sent photographs or anything. They were just your basic Mach-1 radio designed to guide rescuers to your position.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, sir. The tree limbs caught his parachute again, but he’s farther away. We can still shout at each other, Commander.”

“Rockdale, you and MacGammon are going to have to figure out a way to untangle yourselves. You need to get out of the trees. You need to do it soon. Two things; you don’t want to be in those trees when rescue comes. The rotors will suck the canopy up into the intakes, so if you’re not free of those parachutes, it’s going to turn a quicker, easier rescue into a longer, harder one. And two, you don’t want to dangle like free meat through the night.”

He didn’t think anything could reach them this far up in the trees, but Lieutenant Commander Peeters knew more than he did. Rockdale listened as the mission commander gave him more tips. As he listened, he watched MacGammon start to swing back and forth. The shorter, squat man from New Jersey pumped his legs back and forth, building up momentum. Above MacGammon, the man’s parachute was edging forward, toward the end of the main limb that held it. The leaves wrapped around it would never hold it when the nylon came free.

“. . . Do you copy, Rockdale? First, get out of the trees.”

“Yes, sir, we will,” Rockdale replied, his eyes switching back and forth between MacGammon and the snag. He released the push to talk button. “Mac! Your parachute is about to come—”

MacGammon’s parachute broke free just as MacGammon swung toward the trunk of the huge tree across from Rockdale. The aircrewman tumbled downward toward the trunk. MacGammon bounced onto a huge limb, his hands and legs scrambling to hold on. The 28-foot nylon canopy drifted down and rolled over the top of the prone aircrewman.

“Mac! You alright?”

“I’m alright!” a muffled scream came back, followed by a tattoo of cursing and swearing. “I may have shit myself, but I’m all right.”

“Rockdale, you hear me?”

Rockdale pushed the talk button. “Yes, sir, Commander. MacGammon is free. He’s up against the trunk of the tree across from mine. I don’t suppose you’d have any idea how far from the ground we are, would you, sir?” Rockdale asked, mentally kicking himself for the dumb question. How in the hell would Commander Peeters know how far he was from the ground? He waited for the derisive reply.

“Sorry, Rocky, I don’t,” Peeters replied solemnly. “I know the height of the trees where you landed sometimes reach a hundred feet.”

“That’s great news!” came another muffled shout.

“You hear that?” Rockdale shouted.

A hand snaked out from beneath the nylon, holding up a PRC-90. MacGammon had turned on his survival radio. He might as well save the batteries on his, if MacGammon wasn’t going to listen. It wasn’t as if he was senior to the other third class petty officer or something. Carson was, but neither of them had any idea where Carson had landed. Carson might be badly—

“Rockdale, listen to me. Your location and situation has been broadcast to homeplate and to Commander, Amphibious Group Two, who sailed into Monrovia this morning as we were taking off. Everyone knows where you are and they’re working on a rescue team.”

“Thanks, Commander—”

“Commander, this is Petty Officer MacGammon. How long are we going to be out here? It ain’t exactly Kansas, you know.”

“Rockdale, your comms were blocked by MacGammon.
MacGammon, you and Rockdale are probably going to be there at least overnight.”

The nylon rippled back, uncovering MacGammon’s head. MacGammon turned his head to the side and looked up at Rockdale. “Overnight! Did you hear that, Rocky? They make us bail out, and they’re going to go back, sip beer, and watch CNN, while we stay out, getting eaten alive by mosqui—”

Rockale pushed the talk button. “Commander, what is the aircraft situation?”

Two clicks acknowledged his question. It seemed to Rockdale that a few minutes passed, with the sound of MacGammon griping in the background before the radio blazed to life. “Rockdale, we are heading back to Monrovia. The fire is out, but if we have reflash, we have no way of stopping it. If it blazes back up or if another casualty on that wing causes a fire, then we will have to either ditch or bail out. On the bright side for you, there is another EP-3 heading into homeplate from mother, due to arrive shortly. We’re not forgetting our shipmates on the ground. Rockdale, MacGammon, I know this is hard on you two, but you’re going have to have faith that rescue is on the way. Tomorrow morning at first light, either us or the new aircrew will be orbiting overhead, and by tomorrow afternoon, there’ll be cold beer and hot food waiting for you.”