Joint Task Force #4: Africa (17 page)

“Roger, sir. We’ll try.”

“You two need to work your way down and search for Carson. But don’t wander too far from where you’re at now. We have you pinpointed. If you drift away, then we’ll have to search anew tomorrow. As for Carson, something’s wrong and let’s hope it’s just his radio, but you two don’t split up and get lost hunting for him. We are leaving the area now. I’ll stay in contact as long as I can. We pushed
out a life raft right after the chief bailed out. Should be supplies and a larger radio in it, if you can find it.”

Rockdale’s brow bunched. Thought,
How in the hell are we going to find a life raft in the middle of this jungle? We can’t even find the ground.
He sighed. When the talk is finished, you’re always on your own, even when those who do foolish things to help surround you.

“Yes, Chief,” Peeters broadcast. “Rockdale and MacGammon are alright, but they’re going to have to get themselves out of the trees.”

A few second later, Peeters returned to the airwaves. “Yes, Chief, I’ll tell them.”

Rockdale looked up at his parachute. A long rip he hadn’t noticed earlier ran from where the suspension lines connected to the canopy to where the nylon had become knotted in numerous places, wrapped about the entwined limbs of two trees. No way his parachute was going to come free like MacGammon’s. He wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.

“Rockdale,” Peeters broadcast. “Chief Razi is working his way to you, but I wouldn’t count on him getting there anytime soon. You two are going to have to free yourselves, find Carson, and wait where you are for rescue.”

Rockdale lifted his radio to reply.

“We copy you, sir,” MacGammon answered before Rockdale hit the talk button.

“Hey, Mac, you watch the radio for a while. I’m turning mine off and putting it away while I try to free myself.”

MacGammon looked up and nodded.

Rockdale could release the straps and fall the three feet to the limb beneath him. He craned his head forward. It didn’t look rotten or anything. It should hold him, but he’d have to hit it squarely. There were no limbs or vines he could grab. If he didn’t land squarely, he could roll off, and
though he couldn’t see the ground, it wouldn’t surprise him to find it on the way down. From MacGammon’s radio, he could hear Peeters talking to Chief Razi, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Rockdale released the two leg straps. Decisions are best made when enough information becomes available and before you worry yourself out of making one. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then took another one. Only the chest straps held him to the parachute.

He glanced at MacGammon, who had dragged himself out from under the parachute and was resting with his back against the trunk of the tree. MacGammon was watching, even as he pulled the parachute toward him, rolling it up as it came forward. Rockdale took MacGammon’s unfamiliar silence as knowing what he was about to do.

The volume of the radio increased. Rockdale glanced down and saw that MacGammon had moved it away from against his ear.

“Okay, Chief,” Peeters said. “Don’t worry about what I said and concentrate on closing in on the others who bailed out. I have radio communications with you, Rockdale, and MacGammon. I have not heard anything from Carson and that gives me cause to worry. He might be injured. Rockdale, you copy?”

Looking down, Rockdale released the two chest straps. He didn’t hear Peeters’s question as he fell the three feet to the limb. His right leg slid off the limb. Rockdale scrambled to the left, his hands and legs thrashing about, searching for something to grab, anything—only the limb was smooth. His body slid farther to the right. His left leg slid off the limb and the next thing he knew he was falling. He heard MacGammon screaming at him as branches and leaves beat his body and slapped against his helmet. Something slammed him upside the head and the
last thing he remembered before blackness encased him was a dry coppery taste.

“Got to go, Commander. We’re free, but Rockdale fell and I gotta go find him.”

CHIEF RAZI TURNED THE VOLUME ON HIS RADIO DOWN. HE
should turn it off, but with no one to notice, he kept it on against Navy survival instructions. After all, he wasn’t going to be out here long. If everything goes right, the Air Force might even get their helicopter out here before dark, so Razi didn’t see how the batteries would run out. He slipped it back into his survival-vest pocket, leaving the pocket unsnapped so he could grab it if Peeters called again. The EP-3E may be wounded and heading back to homeplate, but as long as he was in reception range of the EP-3E, the radio gave him the feeling that he was not alone. Alone was something he was not used to. A loud screech from somewhere to his left caused Razi to jump. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted.
Stay calm, you twit. Jungles are supposed to be filled with strange noises and animals. Animals!
He turned, searching the area as thoughts of lions, tigers, and gorillas filled his mind. He checked his compass to make sure he was still heading in the general direction of where Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson had come down, weaving around bushes and brambles that blocked his way. He figured it was an animal trail, but in a sense he was just another animal using it for a while and then those man-eaters could have it back.

An hour later he realized he hadn’t heard anything else from Peeters and thought about using the radio to check and see if they were still within reception range, but he stumbled, cursed himself for being clumsy, and fought his way through a light section of brush, forgetting about making
contact. He always had people around him. In the air, he was surrounded by twenty-four of the greatest Americans in the armed forces. At work, he had the entire squadron and Rota, Spain, Naval Base. The club at happy hour, he was surrounded by his fellow chiefs. Of course, there was his wife and children at home. Virginia, Nelson, John Paul, and Cleopatra. He smiled. The other chiefs could eat their hearts out. Each of his kids had been named for famous commanders who fought wars at sea. The daughter, and youngest, had been a surprise to him and Virginia, of which he blamed the squadron picnic of five years ago, the abundance of sangria, and that cute little seaman who played softball in a mini-skirt. He barely got his wife inside the door . . .

A series of screeches interrupted his thoughts. What in the heck was he doing thinking about his family at a time like this?

The two of them expected another boy, so he had chosen the names of Farragut and Horatio for Virginia to choose from. When little Cleo emerged, he surprised his wife by already having a navy name picked for their daughter. Cleopatra—the first woman to command a fleet in combat. On the negative side was that Cleopatra and Mark Anthony lost the battle, but his daughter was definitely a navy child. Only four and already she knew her bells. What more could a chief petty officer dad ask for?

Razi stopped for a moment and leaned against a nearby tree. He shifted his helmet to the other armpit, lifted the compass, and checked his heading. The screeches continued, but other jungle sounds joined whatever was making the noise, and Razi shoved them to back of his mind. What he couldn’t shove away were the images of what he considered man-eaters flickering through his thoughts and causing him to glance over his shoulders periodically.

He knew he needed to concentrate on the matter at hand and not think about his family or allow his thoughts to be distracted, but they never told him in survival training that sometimes your mind refuses to function like you want it to when you’re coming down off an adrenaline high. Here, in the middle of the jungle in the middle of the afternoon, Razi was as alone as he had ever been. Damn good thing I am a chief petty officer, he kept telling himself. A lesser person would be a basket case by now—alone in a place where you couldn’t see fifty feet in front of you and surrounded by animals who wanted nothing more than to eat you. Well, by God, if one of those animals wanted to eat him, it would know real quick it was messing with a goddamn U.S. Navy chief petty officer. When he finished with it, it’d think twice the next time it messed with one. The bushes to his right shook and from beneath them a wild boar shot out, grunting, and quickly disappeared across the open space. Razi jumped, slamming his back hard against a tree. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Damn,” he finally said, moving away from the tree. “Scared the shit out of me.” He bent over, trying to see where the animal disappeared and tripped, the radio falling out of the pocket, hitting the ground, and tumbling a few times before coming to rest right-side up. Razi quickly picked it up, muttering obscenities to himself as he dusted the vegetation from it. He pushed the button, his eyes searching for anything else that might attack him. “ Commander, you still there?” he asked, heard the high pitch sound of his voice, and immediately stopped.

Nothing. Christ, if it’s broke, he’d have to walk out of here and no telling how many years that would take. His daughter would be married with kids by the time he emerged. “Chief Razi, I presume,” they’d say. A slight chill washed over him at the thought. He pressed the button
again, and with his voice in a slightly calmer tone, called for Lieutenant Commander Peeters again. “Ranger 20, this is Chief Razi. You still out there?” How could he check it, if no one answered?

Static emerged from the small speaker on the side. Someone was answering him. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Not for much longer, Chief. We’re about thirty miles from you and starting to descend back to Monrovia. We’ll be back tomorrow. Stay safe, shipmate.” The voice faded as Razi listened.

“Well, at least it still works,” he said, smiling. He knew they’d be back tomorrow. It went without saying that when your shipmate was down, your duty was to go get him. Razi turned the volume down and slipped the radio back into his survival-vest pocket. The radio pocket was near the center of his chest, so Razi would easily hear any further transmissions it picked up. He warned himself to turn the radio off and conserve the batteries. Nearly an hour later and he estimated a half-mile farther, he heeded his own advice, slipped his hand into the pouch, and flipped the radio off. He buckled the top of the pouch so the radio wouldn’t fall out again.

Razi kept moving, his thirst growing. He had expected moving through the jungle to be like the dreams where he was running and no matter how fast he ran, his legs moved as if wading through molasses. Instead, this was more like a stroll in a North Carolina woods, except the shade was thicker, trapping the heat and humidity and shutting out the sunlight. He pulled back the Velcro holding the sleeve of the flight suit tight, slid the sleeve back, and checked his watch. A little after 1600 in the afternoon—even in his thoughts, time was military.
What in the hell was a sailor doing in the middle of the jungle?
If someone had asked him prior to this morning if he would ever bail out of an
aircraft, he would have laughed. He had always told people, and himself, that if he ever had to ditch an aircraft, it would be over water, and he’d be with others leaning back against the bright orange sides of a life raft, waiting for rescue. Jungles were for Marines and soldiers. He shouldn’t even be here. If Peeters hadn’t been looking at him, he wouldn’t have bailed out.

For the first time, he started to worry about where he was going to sleep. He couldn’t sleep on the ground. The man-eaters were everywhere. Look at the one that shot out from under the bushes, missed him, and took off running. Lieutenant Commander Peeters’s attempt to make him feel better was admirable, but Razi knew better than to trust everything a lieutenant commander said. They were good for your career, but if you hung around too long, they’d crucify you. Lieutenant commanders were “wanna-be” commanders. He even knew one who had gone to the Navy uniform shop and bought every shoulder device, all the way up to four-star admiral. Sure, they could argue he was self-promoting, but every chief should own the devices all the way up to master chief petty officer. He wasn’t always going to be a chief. One of these days, the Bureau of Naval Personnel, in their infinite reasoning, would recognize that he was a senior chief wearing the chief petty officer device, and then they would promote him. He smiled. Damn, this bailout would force them to promote him.
He ought to be thanking Peeters instead of blaming him.

Chief petty officers had more problems with lieutenant commanders than any other officer rank. “Give me an ensign any day,” Razi said aloud. “One would be good right now.” Man-eaters probably prefer younger meat to tough, sinewy chief petty officers.

Most lieutenant commanders were a pain in the ass. Senior enough they didn’t believe they were junior officers
and junior enough they didn’t have much real authority. Some were all right, Razi guessed, but Christ, they were hard to train.

Razi pushed aside some limbs to find a fallen tree blocking his path. Razi stopped and rubbed his chin as he looked at it. So far, he hadn’t had to make any decisions other than to keep moving in the same direction. The tree posed a problem as it disappeared on both ends into deep bushes. Clambering through the bushes to go around this thing didn’t appeal to him. He took the two steps needed so he could touch it. The top of the fallen tree was slightly higher than his chest. He couldn’t see over it because of the vegetation that blocked his view. In the woods of North Carolina, you never stepped over a fallen tree. Snakes like to take refuge beneath fallen trees.

Razi jumped back quickly, leaned, and looked along the base of the tree. They definitely had snakes here. Those that weren’t poisonous could swallow you whole. What he wouldn’t give to have another chief here. “Ummmm what was the name of that new flight engineer? She’d be a welcome distraction.”

A rustle from the bushes near to his left caught Razi’s attention. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Images of lions, tigers, gorillas, and a lost race of Amazons raced through his mind. Without taking his eyes off the rustling bushes, Razi opened his survival vest and pulled his survival knife out of its sleeve. He turned slightly, facing the rustling bushes. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, realizing at the same time his breath was rapid and quick. Damn straight, he was scared, but whatever was in that bush would easily chase him down and in a couple of bites, he’d be a memory.