Joint Task Force #4: Africa (19 page)

The rain bounced off the boy’s small back—so thin, Razi could see the outline of the boy’s spine and it didn’t appear to him the boy had any meat on those arms.
How did such a reed of a boy carry such a huge weapon?
The armed lad’s head moved up and down as he scanned intently the water-covered trail beneath his feet.
This is the land of boy warriors; too many boys without parents—bad combination,
thought Razi as he watched, remaining motionless except for his eyes.
No one to beat their butts when they got out of line. No one to teach them right from wrong. No time to play
.

This boy, less than ten feet from him, was one of those
heat spots the sailors from Naval Research Laboratories had detected.
Why couldn’t those sailors tell from the heat signatures whether the image was an adult or a child?
Here Razi tensed, motionless, off balanced, against a tree, quickly realizing man-eating lions had become the least of his problems. This armed child was tracking him.
Him—Razi!
A few seconds passed with Razi expecting any moment for the boy to look his way.
Whatever they do in the future, don’t change the color of these flight suits
. The boy stood up and quickly disappeared through the curtain of rain, heading off in the direction Razi had been heading before the rain forced him to take shelter near this tree.

He took a deep breath, relaxed slightly, when a shout from the direction of where the boy soldier had disappeared caused him to jump.
Time to go,
he told himself. Razi raised his right leg, taking a step toward a nearby bush. As he put his foot down, four other lads raced out of the rain on one side and disappeared into the rain on the other side. All of them running where Razi should have been going. No, this jungle was nothing like the woods of North Carolina.

Razi figured the tracker would eventually figure he hadn’t continued onward. They’d come back. He had seconds before they started retracing their tracks. He took a deep breath, expecting to hear bullets ripping into him at any time, and quickly eased around the tree, trying to keep his back against it. This time, the heavy brush growing close to his path didn’t play on his imagination. False fears fell away against real ones. Razi stumbled, thankful the rain hid the noise. If he could put something along with distance between him and those armed kids, he’d be okay.

They were looking for him. He didn’t need the cryptologic skills of his rating to figure that out. It wasn’t as if they were young boys trouncing off to a 7-Eleven for their
ma and pa. He may not understand this mumbo-jumbo language of theirs, but he figured rightly that the shouting was to tell the others that Razi had disappeared. Disappear was just what he intended to do. The rain should hide his tracks. He discovered himself praying for the rain to continue, when only minutes ago he was wishing for it to stop.
Lord, keep the rain coming; the harder, the better
.

The first row of brush closed behind him, but when he took his second step, a limb whipped back, causing him to shut his eyes as it slapped across his visor. That would have hurt, if the rain hadn’t forced him to put the helmet back on. He may have disliked the monsoon rainstorm that caused him to take refuge against the tree, but the Almighty must have been looking over him, for this rain saved his life.

Razi pushed his foot through a tangle of vines and when he leaned forward to put his weight on it, something gave, and in the next instant he was sliding down a steep hill, his helmet
rat-a-tat-tating
off the roots and rocks along the way. His helmet bounced off something huge, rattling his teeth, and bringing tears to his eyes, but Razi didn’t have time to think about it, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to run his tongue between his teeth and have it bit off. The incline dipped sharply, and Razi screamed once as he picked up speed. A moment later, his butt slammed into the bottom of the muddy incline where momentum catapulted him forward to where the ground abruptly ended, sending him tumbling into the air as if he had reached the end of a slide in some godforsaken playground. His stomach dropped as his forward momentum stopped, and he started rolling head-over-heels on his way down.

“Christ!” he shouted, the word both a prayer and a cry, the rain muffling the shout.

His body twisted in midair. Over and over, he kept
repeating the word, “Christ” as he fell. There was nothing beneath him. It was as if he was in the middle of a water tunnel. Water above him, water below him, water beside him, and he couldn’t see a damn thing but water. Was he dead, and this was his hell?

At the last second, when his tumble brought him face down for a moment, he saw a body of water below him before he rolled over, hitting the surface on his back, splashing through, thrashing beneath the water. Crocodiles replaced the boy soldiers who had replaced the
lions. A chief petty officer never drinks
 . . .

Razi’s head popped through the surface of the water. His mouth open wide, and he gasped deep breaths—the rain churning the water around him.
God, if you’re trying to scare to me to death, you’re doing a damn fine job
.

He was in a river or stream or something that moved because the water pulled him along with a steady flow. There were lots of rivers in Africa. Some stayed wet year round. His head bobbed on the surface, fighting for air against the water that choked him with each breath. The current slowed, giving Razi time to check his aches, satisfying himself in a few seconds that he had no broken bones. He had a lot of sore ones and tomorrow was going to be one painful—

Piranhas flashed into his mind for a moment before he recalled they lived in South America, not Africa.
National Geographic
was becoming invaluable to his well-being. A flash of green to his right caught his attention, and the waterlogged Razi turned and swam toward it, kicking his boot-laden feet to stay afloat. As he neared, a flat area devoid of vegetation emerged from the cover of rain. He changed direction and swam toward it. Better to walk out of the river than have to fight the bush. In North Carolina, water moccasins preferred the waters beneath vegetation
that overlapped the waters. He didn’t see any reason snakes in Africa would be any different. Other than that they had one that could swallow you whole. He picked up the pace.

A couple of minutes later, his hand touched bottom, the flight glove sinking into the mud. Razi pulled his hand free and stood, his flight boots sinking, nearly causing him to splash forward, but they only sunk into the mud a couple of inches. Struggling against the sucking mud, the current, and the rain, he walked the remaining few feet to the natural ramp leading up out of the water. When his last step took him out of the water, Razi stopped, leaned forward, and put both hands on his knees, taking time to catch his breath. The rain seemed to be slackening. Around the area, several rough-hewed fallen trees and limbs lay scattered, probably washed ashore by floods. He glanced ahead. A steep incline led up to where a six-foot-high embankment waited. He would have to climb it.
Shouldn’t be too hard
. He clawed his way up the churned and muddy incline to a flat area just below the embankment.

Razi straightened and unzipped his survival vest, removing the compass. He let the needle settle on north and then glanced in the direction he needed to go. He was sure he had come out on the right side of the river so it wasn’t between him and his sailors. All he had to do was get on higher ground away from the river. He had to be on the same side, because if he wasn’t, then Razi would never find Rockdale, MacGammon, or Carson. He could wander forever until something happened to him. No one would ever know what became of Chief Petty Officer Razi.

The rain picked up in tempo again. Razi accepted it as fate—a sign that he was meant to find his sailors and bring them home safely. Of course, if he didn’t, then who was going to find and bring
him
home safely. He zipped the compass back in the survival vest, realizing for the first
time as he zipped up the pouch that he no longer held the survival knife in his right hand. Instinctively, he glanced behind him at the water, knowing somewhere between the tree he had been hugging and the mud where he stood, he had lost the only weapon he had. The knife wasn’t designed for fighting, but it did provide a small measure of security. No way he could have moved the knife fast enough to stop AK-47 bullets.

He looked at the embankment facing him and walked toward it. He had to move. That six-foot embankment might mark where the river crested when the rains came, and he didn’t want to be here when a flash flood raced down this valley. He thought,
How far did I fall? It could have been tens of feet or hundreds for all I know. I was too busy praying, breathing, and trying not to ruin my underwear to keep track
.

Stepping up to the embankment, Razi reached his hand out and touched it. Rotten humus and wet leaves covered the six-foot-high barrier. This wasn’t going to be easy— too slippery. He looked for a vine, a root, anything to hold onto to help him climb. A thin tree grew at the very edge of the embankment. Razi could probably jump and grab it at the bottom of the trunk, but he wasn’t sure it would hold his weight. He lifted one foot and then the other, watching the water and mud swirl around them. Then again, the worst that could happen was it could come loose, and he’d fall back onto the gray-brown muck beneath him. He would have to jump, grab it, and kind of crab walk up the embankment. If it didn’t hold him, then it’d be a dirty but soft landing.

Razi took a deep breath, his hands resting on his hips, as he surveyed the embankment, looking for an easier solution. Looking left, a slight motion drew his attention toward the river. He turned his head for a better look. Didn’t
see anything. Realized the number of logs and old trees were more numerous than he thought. Maybe he could shove one of them over here and use it like a step or a ladder. He turned back to the problem of the embankment when several of the logs rose from the ground and moved toward him. The motion caught his attention. They weren’t logs. They were African crocodiles. A second later, Razi was on top of the embankment; unaware of how he climbed it. The slim tree was on the mud below. Four crocodiles looked up at him, their mouths opening and closing.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and there be monsters under your bed, too
.

Razi took a deep breath, threw his head back, and roared at the top of his voice, pounding his chest. Tears ran down his cheeks, but damn it, he wasn’t scared any longer.
Screw you, Africa. Bring it on!

”THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU, DICK,” THOMASTON SAID,
looking down at Admiral Holman. The rain pelted the awning above them, forcing them to raise their voices as they talked.

Admiral Dick Holman reached out and shook the hand of the interim president of Liberia. “I hope you understand that I have little choice but to rescue those downed aircrewman, General.”

Behind retired General Thomaston, Dick saw his chief of staff, Captain Leo Upmann, step out of the small building across the open area that separated the two buildings. Upmann was returning from Airport Operations, a floor down from the airport tower on top of the building. Holman and Thomaston had commandeered the only waiting room at Monrovia International Airport, only to have Holman step outside for a cigar.

Thomaston nodded. “I would probably do the same if I was still active-duty Army, but as the head of the Republic of Liberia, I have to think of the political side of it.”

Dick politely smiled. Politics, politics, politics. Now, there’s a profession that could use a rise in unemployment. He dropped the cigar and ground it out in the mud. “ Definitely makes you appreciate the small amount of politics we have in the military when you jump into the career field of politics. Domestic, national, international . . . worries within worries within categories.” He shook his head. “Can’t say I envy you this job you’ve taken.”

Thomaston nodded without smiling. “It is different, which is why I have to formally forbid you from landing inside Guinea. The bilateral agreement between your country and Guinea for flying reconnaissance missions was predicated on Liberia ensuring that no Americans would violate their territorial sovereignty by putting troops on the ground.”

Holman nodded. He had a lot of respect for Thomaston, but he found it hard to reconcile this apparent double standard of loyalty the retired general had developed. “I understand completely, Dan, but that agreement is open to interpretation. I don’t think a rescue party can be construed as putting troops on the ground. Just as surely, the Guineans can’t put four men bailing out of an aircraft struck by a missile over their territory in the same category.”

Thomaston shrugged. “I wish I knew, but my people tell me the Guinean ambassador has scheduled an urgent appointment with me later tonight. I will put him off until tomorrow afternoon, Dick. That may give you time to extract those sailors. After that, I may have little choice but to ban flights that cross Liberia’s northern border area.”

“Admiral, General,” Captain Upmann said as he approached the two.

Dick returned his chief of staff’s salute. “What’d you find out?”

“Thirty minutes out, Admiral. Number-four engine feathered. Temperatures are within acceptable range. Low-oil light flickering on number-three engine. Hydraulics seems to be holding. They’re dumping fuel and want to make a straight-in approach for landing.”

“If they have to feather the number-three engine, that’s going to complicate them making Monrovia. It will leave the aircraft flying on the two engines on their port side only.”

“Feather? Port? Dumping fuel, I can understand,” said Thomaston.

“Feather is when you shut down an engine while in flight and lock it in place. Port is—”

“Port is to the sailor as left is to us old soldiers,” Thomaston answered. “I remembered what port is after I asked the question. Feather is a new term for me.”

Upmann continued, “They may have to feather number-three before they reach here. The VQ-2 pilot has reduced airspeed, trying to keep number-three engine on line and reduce the resistance against the airframe.”