Joint Task Force #4: Africa (20 page)

“If they have to feather the engine, does that mean they’ll crash?” Thomaston asked.

Upmann shrugged. “I’m a surface-warfare officer.”

“It could. Right now, the aircraft is dumping fuel— reducing weight to reduce drag. There are a lot of factors that go into making that determination, and the best people to make it are on board that aircraft.” Holman pointed at the sky. “Yeah, the best to make that determination are up there.”

“Yes, sir. They are dumping excess fuel. That fuel will evaporate—”

A couple of buildings away, sirens drowned out Upmann, causing the three men to cover their ears. A second
later, two fire trucks roared out of the airport fire station, heading toward the runway to join other trucks already in position. The three stood watching, unable to talk while the sirens blared so closely. A couple of minutes later as the decibel level from the sirens lowered, the two fire trucks reached the landing end of the runway, and joined the two other fire trucks already there. Holman glanced up at the sky. The rain must be easing for them to be able to see the end of the runway. On the tops of the two trucks already at the end of the runway stood firemen dressed in silver-colored reflective fire suits, manning foam hoses. Foam was the fire-fighting weapon of choice for any gasoline or petrol fire. All water did was spread the fire as burning petrol rode atop of it like an unpaid passenger, enjoying the ride while wreaking havoc for everything around it.

“That would be the Liberian volunteers,” Thomaston said loudly, above the fading sirens. “Thankfully, the U.S. Air Force is still providing civilian firemen, but eventually that will go away. We have been training Liberians to replace them. Gave a contract to a nonprofit company out of Savannah, Georgia-Southside or something like that—to teach our firefighters and medical first-responders how to do their jobs. Another year, and I expect Liberians to be able to do for themselves what we need America to help us do today. We need to be fully independent before the unforeseen developments of tomorrow jerk the cornucopia of American aid and support we’re enjoying today out from under us. It isn’t as if Liberia can expect America to be there everytime we need it.”

Holman’s brows wrinkled at Thomaston’s words.

The
chop-chop
of rotors on approaching helicopters grew as the fire trucks cut their sirens. Holman shielded his eyes as he searched the skies. That would be the Marine Corps Company that the colonel promised. The Air Force
helicopters were gearing up for the search-and-rescue down at the other end of the runway. The Air Force was trained to do this, but in the event something happened and they failed to make the mission, Holman wanted a backup. He did not intend to leave his sailors in the jungles longer than he had to.

The Air Force commander, Colonel Hightower, said his two birds would be airborne at dawn to bring back the Navy aircrewman. He had tried to convince the Air Force to go this afternoon, but Hightower was insistent that they needed to reconfigure their birds, and if they got to the bailout site and were unable to find the flyers, they’d have less time to search. He didn’t agree with the argument, but the four-star general at United States Air Force European command did.

Thomaston lowered his hand from his eyes. “I’m going now, Dick. I do not want to know what your plans are, but officially, I must ask you not to attempt to rescue your downed aircrew. We will formally ask the Guineans to do it. It is one thing to fly over another country’s land, and another when you put boots on the ground without their permission. Good day.” Without waiting for a reply, Lieutenant General, retired, Thomaston walked toward the long black Mercedes-Benz waiting to take him to the palace.

“What was that about?” Upmann asked.

“He’s caught between the rock of politics, the hard place of being an American, and unable to decide where his loyalties lie. If we go into Guinea without his knowledge and bring out our sailors, then he can bluster truthfully that he told us not to and he never knew our intentions.”

“I would think he knows.”

“If he doesn’t, then he never deserved to be a three-star general in our armed forces.”

Upmann handed Dick a soda. “From how he talks, I’m not sure he did deserve it.”

“I try not to prejudge people, Captain Upmann.”

Upmann drew back in mock shock and then leaned close to Holman. “Sorry, Admiral. Just wanted to make sure it was you.”

“Thanks. How much longer until they land?”

“Twenty-five minutes, Admiral. I would suggest we go over to the American Liaison Office and wait. When the aircraft lands, that’s where Naval Intelligence has asked the crew be brought.”

The two walked along the front edges of the small white buildings lining the runway, keeping close to them as shelter from the rain, and running from one to the other. Someone at one time had slapped white paint over the buildings, but years of weather and neglect had left them with holes, broken windows, and cracked floors, giving each building a unique appearance. Otherwise, the buildings, one after the other, would have been almost identical.

Across the two runways and taxiways, several helicopters and small jet trainers sat idle, their sides painted with Liberian marks. One bomb would take out the entire Liberian Air Force, but why would you take out something that was no threat to you? Upmann kept up a running dialogue as the two moved, apprising Admiral Dick Holman of the conditions of the aircrew; the aircraft; and the four men who were on the ground in Guinea.

The idea that a chief petty officer jumped for no other reason than loyalty to his sailors—Holman took a deep breath. Things like that made him proud to be an American warrior. No greater value can a leader have than to risk his or her own life for the lives of their troops. He and Admiral Duncan James, head of the Navy’s SEALs, were talking once about people moving through their careers, climbing
that ladder behind them. People who would one day stand where they stood today, making life-and-death decisions. You reach the twilight of a military career wondering about the caliber of the folks following you, and you’re proud when you reach the conclusion that they are the best of the best. Both of them had reached this same conclusion—before their third mile. The military, not just the Navy, was filled with stories such as this, lending confidence that when the old-timers of today were relieved by the newcomers of tomorrow, the military was being passed into great, confident hands to defend the Constitution of the United States of America. Next year, when Rear Admiral–lower-half Xavier Bennett relieved him, Dick Holman would leave a navy manned by some of the greatest people America had to offer. People such as this chief petty officer, Wilbur Razi. Holman stepped in a puddle, the water cascading above the top of and pouring into his shoe. He should have worn his flight suit and boots.

Somewhere out there in the jungle was this chief petty officer, hurrying toward his sailors, unafraid—doing his duty, and risking his life for his sailors. Dick promised himself to see that the man received recognition for this act of heroism. Chief Razi must be one brave soul to leap out of an aircraft when he didn’t have to do it. Dick shook his head slightly. The idea of being alone in the jungle would be terrifying to him, but he had no doubt this chief petty officer was a lot braver than he’d be in the same situation.

The rain picked up again as they dashed between buildings. Stopping briefly beneath an eave, Upmann and Holman could barely see the next building. Dick heard Upmann talking, but he couldn’t make out what his chief of staff was saying. The noise of the rain pelting the tin roof of the building drowned out everything around them. His hand hit against his pants. Dick looked. His khakis
were soaked, but he consoled himself with the understanding that in Africa, what is wet one moment is steam dried the next.

They kept moving, walking under the eaves, then running between the buildings, until they reached the last building, where a couple of petty officers stood under the far end of the long eave, smoking cigarettes, and leaning against the outside wall in protection against the rain. They snapped to attention and saluted when they recognized the Commander, Amphibious Squadron Two, emerge through the curtain of rain. Dick nodded as he ducked through the doorway. Inside would be Captain Mary Davidson, his intelligence officer, arranging for the debriefs. She had wanted them trucked back to the USS
Boxer
for the debriefing, but Dick knew what would be going through the minds of the flight crew once they landed.

The first thing they’d want to know would be what rescue efforts were being mounted and how soon could they join the search.
So it has ever been and so it shall ever be
. Leaving a shipmate in harm’s way was not the Navy way.

ROCKDALE OPENED HIS EYES. AN EXPANSE OF WHITENESS
blinded him. Shocked, he involuntarily sucked in a deep breath, coming up short, as something covered his mouth; blocking off the air. Just as quickly it was gone and he could breath again.

“Christ, Rocky, what the hell you trying to do? Drown and suffocate yourself?

Rolling his eyes upward, he saw a hand holding the parachute away from his face.

“About time you woke up.”

Rockdale turned toward the voice. MacGammon was squatting beside him, one hand holding the parachute away
from Rockdale’s face so he could breath and the other hand stretched overhead like a tent pole.

“How long have I been out?”

“That’s getting to be a common question,” MacGammon griped, shaking his head. “About forty minutes, if you must know, and my arms are getting tired, so it would help if you would sit up and push the parachute away from your own face instead of me having to do it.”

Rockdale reached up and pushed the parachute away from his face, keeping one hand up to hold the parachute. MacGammon’s hand disappeared.

“Whew! That feels great,” MacGammon said. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold your hands up over your head for a long time.”

“Thanks,” Rockdale said. He looked down. Water ran around his legs. It reached the top of MacGammon’s steel-toed flight boots.

“You don’t have to thank me,” MacGammon protested. “If you hadn’t woke up when you did, I was going to have to throw the parachute off, and we’d gotten soaked.”

Rockdale touched his chest, his legs, and arms. “Seems like we’re soaked already, Mac.”

“What are you talking about? Oh, you! Well, you were laying down in it, and there wasn’t much I could do to get you out of it.”

Rockdale looked up at the parachute. Nylon parachutes weren’t waterproof, but they could shelter you from the bulk of the water. The saturated parachute was folding around their hands.

“I don’t think this is going to work much longer,” Rockdale said. “Maybe we should move nearer the tree.”

MacGammon shook his head. “Listen, shipmate,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’ve been doing this for over forty minutes while you slept. Don’t come awake and start
telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. This is keeping us dry—keeping me dry somewhat and, besides, these monsoons don’t last long.”

Rockdale opened his mouth to reply at the same time the rain stopped. “I guess that settles it, doesn’t it.”

MacGammon’s eyes narrowed and without replying, the stocky sailor from New Jersey pulled the parachute off, hand over hand.

Freed of the soaked parachute, the two stood. Rockdale was relieved to find the white spots of earlier didn’t return, though a slight nausea still persisted. He probably had a slight concussion, but this wasn’t the time to throw up his hands and give up. It wasn’t as if he could call 911 from here in the middle of nowhere.

“We’ve got to find Stetson,” Rockdale said above the sound of the rain, which had started falling again.

MacGammon began to gather up the parachute. “Let’s roll the parachute first. We’ll want to take it with us.”

Rockdale shook his head. “It needs to dry out, Mac. Why don’t we stretch it across the clearing so that when the rain stops, the heat can dry it? It’ll serve as a marker as we try to find—”

MacGammon continued rolling the wet nylon. “Right! We leave it here to mark a spot that we won’t even be able to see once we’ve gone twenty yards in any direction.” He stopped and with raised arm, rotated it across the area. “Look for yourself. There is nothing here but plants, trees, vines, and all that shit a jungle brings with it. You can’t see a damn thing. If you hadn’t been moaning, I might never have found you.”

“You mean you might never have come hunting.”

MacGammon dropped his arm. “That’s not what I mean and it’s not what I said.” He returned to his chore of rolling the saturated parachute. “Sure, it’s wet—pretty wet, if you
ask me, but if we leave it here, we may need it, and then where will we be if we can’t find it.”

Rockdale started to object but then thought better of it. They were both shook up over the bailout and regardless of what happened, the two of them had to stay together until rescue arrived tomorrow.

Rockdale unzipped his survival vest and pulled out his small pint of water.

MacGammon looked up as he was double-folding the parachute. “I wouldn’t do that, Rocky,” he said, looking back at what he was doing and away from Rockdale.

Rockdale looked up.

“If you have a concussion, which you do by the way, all that water is going to do is make you puke.” MacGammon tucked the folded parachute under his left arm, reached inside his right flight-suit pocket, and pulled out a handful of cords. “Didn’t they teach you anything at survival school? First twenty-four hours, you don’t drink your water.” MacGammon put the ends of the cords in his mouth, taking one out and quickly tying it around the folding parachute.

Rockdale screwed the top back down on the water. MacGammon was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He thought he preferred the griping, whining-malcontent, nincompoop MacGammon than someone who might actually know something.

“There,” MacGammon said, holding up the parachute.

How did he manage to compact a wet parachute into a tightly wound roll?

“We can go look for Carson. But why don’t we try the radio before we do.” MacGammon held up his left arm, pushed the watchstrap around, so the watch face was right-side up. “It’s twenty after the hour, but what the hell. If Carson is awake and thinking, he’ll have his radio on listening.”