Joint Task Force #4: Africa (29 page)

Another sound intruded over his breathing, and several seconds passed before Razi realized it was the sound of distant gunfire off to his right. He must be running full circle and it was his sailors defending themselves. Without pausing, Razi turned and started heading toward the gunfire, never thinking it might involve someone other that Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson.

He was making a new path through the jungle growth, stepping aside heavier growth to crash through lighter barriers. Never stopping, though. His left foot sunk into a spot of marsh, bringing a sucking sound as he pulled it out, but he kept running. His lungs ached from the exertion, but Razi was in great shape. His body mass from years of lifting
weights gave Razi the weight and stamina needed to move through obstacles that a jogger would only have bounced off. He was the Hulk. He was Tarzan. He was the entire U.S. Marine Corps, though he would never give them the joy of knowing it. No one and nothing could stop Chief Razi—he was invincible and he was clearing the jungle of those would kill him and his sailors.

An entangled barrier of thorn-ridden bushes appeared in front of him. To his left, the barrier looked shorter and weaker. He turned and drove into the bushes, the sharp, thick thorns tearing the already torn flight suit and ripping though the top layer his skin wherever the thorns touched. His forward movement slowed, but his pile-driver legs pushed his body through entwined limbs and vines, drawing more thorns toward him from the surrounding bushes. The brush of a limb swiped across his brow. Razi continued forward, everything focused forward. Adrenaline racing through every muscle. Red clouded his left eye as drops of blood flowed from where thorns had slashed the skin across his brow. He wiped it away and kept moving.

Steady gunfire came from ahead. If Razi’s thoughts had been completely rational, he would have realized the distant gunfire was more than just a few weapons, but many weapons blanketing the jungle sounds.

Several steps later he burst through the thorn barrier into a small clearing. Standing ahead of him was a young man holding an AK-47. Razi turned slightly and like a bulldozer at full throttle plowed toward the African. Pain slammed against his head, and a blaze of white light filled his last moment of consciousness. His body took two— then three more steps before Razi collapsed onto the jungle floor. Above him stood several African men looking down at the madman who had emerged from the thorns. One of them turned his gun over, looked at the stock, and then
slammed it down on Razi’s back—drawing a grunt from Razi. He then wiped the stock back and forth on Razi’s flight suit, cleaning the blood off it.

THE SOLDIER RUNNING TOWARD GENERAL EZEJI CAUGHT
Ojo’s attention. He watched for a moment as the soldier stopped, saluted, and said something to General Ezeji, before turning around and racing back toward the sound of gunfire. Ezeji nodded at Ojo and hurried forward toward him. “Our soldiers have stopped Abu Alhaul, sir.”

As if prophetic, the sound of distant gunfire reached their ears. “I would say they have engaged them, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, General Ojo. Seems we caught up with Abu Alhaul,” Ezeji replied, his smile revealing blackened back teeth. “By this time tomorrow, Africa will be rid of another scourge—a plague to its humanity.”

Ojo turned toward the sound of gunfire. “General, have the men advance, but tell them to stop when we see the enemy. Our soldiers in front should keep them occupied and block any escape. It would be good if we can involve as many of our warriors as we can in slaying Abu Alhaul.”

“I have already sent my lieutenants to tell my soldiers, and I have dispatched runners to both Kabaka and Darin.” He held his arms out as if wrapping them around a huge invisible barrel. “Like this we are. My right arm is General Kabaka’s
trustworthy
forces and my left arm is General Darwin’s forces. We are the center. We are advancing toward a line—a front opposite to our soldiers. When we reach the battle zone and connect with our soldiers on the other side, then we will have the foreigners surrounded. They can surrender—”

“No!” Ojo snapped. “No surrender. No martyrs, no
surrenders, no prisoners. Abu Alhaul will disappear into the jungle. Let those who worship his murderous ways believe him to have vanished from the face of the earth. The stories our soldiers will tell will be all that remains of Abu Alhaul.”

He didn’t mean to startle Ezeji; neither did he mean to embarrass his number-one general. “What was the gunfire to our north that we heard earlier?”

Ezeji shrugged. “I don’t know. I sent a squad to investigate and they haven’t returned.”

The noise of the advancing soldiers of the African National Army tromping forward to the battle area, heading in the direction of gunfire, followed the dictum of modern combat to advance toward the sound of gunfire and turn the nose toward the smell of gunpowder. They couldn’t be far away from where his men had Abu Alhaul surrounded. The smell of battle overrode the jumbled odor of decaying matter wrapped around the fresh smell of jungle vegetation. Ahead was the first of many goals Ojo had set for his vision of freeing Africa from the West. To him, it mattered little if the opponent was white or black. It only mattered that it wasn’t African. This wasn’t a war against any political or religious entity; it was a national war full of pride in country, in people, and its history. The hardest war would come next. The defeat of Abu Alhaul was a carrot to dangle in front of those countries whose might could wipe him from the face of the earth as easily as he would swap a fly. As long as the carrot hypnotized them against his national movement, he could consolidate further his gains in West Africa. The arena where political might and guile were preeminent was a much harder battlefield than the one they were engaged upon now.

The gunfire earlier from the north bothered him. Not the noise, but the fact that Kabaka’s forces were on that side, and so was the Americans.

“General Ezeji, I would like you personally to check on the action to our north.”

Ezeji nodded. “I understand, General. What if our loyal General Kabaka has taken the Americans? It would complicate—”

“It would severely complicate our survivability. If he has them, take them from him.”

Ezeji saluted. “I understand, sir,” and with those words the heavy Nigerian turned right and marched off, his retinue following.

Ojo watched until the jungle wrapped the soldiers from sight before turning back to face the direction where the tempo of gunfire was increasing. His concern for the Americans was not for them, but for his vision. While his army grew daily with new recruits, it would only take a slight miscalculation to cause the anxious Americans, French, and Nigerians to take action against him. He was no fool. Even though he called those who followed him soldiers, and his group an army, they were but a ragtag collection of individuals when compared to the professionals who made up real armies. Finishing Abu Alhaul would appease the nation states long enough for him to obtain some legitimacy, and for that he would turn to the scholars among his followers. He was a warrior, not a statesman; and when fighting the battle for world opinion, a pen and a steady voice were the best weapons, not a gun.

”THE CHIEF AIN’T GONNA COME BACK,” MACGAMMON
said, looking at his watch. “It’s been nearly forty-five minutes and the aircraft is still orbiting.”

Rockdale nodded. “We’re going to have to find our survival vests.”

MacGammon lifted a handkerchief and ran it across
Carson’s head. “Maybe we should look for the chief’s. He wasn’t wearing his when he burst out of the bushes. Maybe he took it off so he could move faster.”

Rockdale nodded. “Could be.” He stood and walked along the bushes. “I think he came in through here.”

MacGammon joined him. “You stay here with Stetson. I’m shorter and smaller. I can probably work my way through this maze better than you.”

“No, I’ll go,” Rockdale objected. He was the senior petty officer, and he was the one who made Sailor of the Year last year while MacGammon was having his ass hauled before the skipper for some infraction or other. And since they’d been here, it had been MacGammon who had made the decisions. All this went through Rockdale’s mind in seconds, recognizing MacGammon was truly the hero in this bailout.

Rockdale was surprised when MacGammon said, “Okay. But, be careful. We haven’t heard the chief’s piece firing in some time.”

“Watch Stetson. If I’m not back soon, you’re going to have to find some water or something for him. Like us, he’s sweating, and none of us have any water to replace what we’re losing.”

Rockdale turned and pushed himself into the bushes where Chief Razi had appeared minutes before dawn. Seconds later, he wished he had listened to MacGammon—the other sailor was shorter and smaller, nearer the chief’s size.

“Still no contact, Skipper,” Lieutenant Commander Peeters said. “The Air Force is orbiting just south of the Liberian border, but he’s only got about two hours of fuel remaining. If we don’t locate Razi and the others in the next hour, we’re going to have to release the helo.”

Commander Greensburg grunted. “Damn it, why don’t
they answer? We’ve been orbiting here since daylight. It’s been over an hour since we started the search.”

Pits shut his eyes and leaned back against the bulkhead of the cockpit. He didn’t say what they were all beginning to believe, and that was that the four men were dead, captured, or worse, being tortured to death. Africans were no better known for their hospitality than the Jihadists. He took a deep breath. He should have been a better judge of character with regard to Razi, though deep down, Pits still wasn’t fully convinced the man even knew what he was doing until after he bailed out. He had met others like Razi during his career. Those who became so enamored with their own self-made image that they began to believe it—act it—do it until circumstances called for them to rise to the occasion such as Razi did, and they did it before they realized they never really intended to do it. His eyebrows bunched. He tried to recall that thought, trying to figure out what it meant, unless it meant he’d been wrong about others during his career.

“Okay,” Greensburg said, drawing everyone’s attention. Several seconds passed before he continued. He glanced down at the fuel gauge. “We have fuel for another four hours. We aren’t going off-station until only enough fumes are left in the tank to take us on the glide path to Monrovia. Chuck, you call homeplate and see what the status is on Ranger 20. Then, you tell the other crew to get their butts to the flight line. If that airplane can fly, then I want it to relieve us on-station two hours from now.”

“Sir, I’ll do that, but that aircraft lost an engine and—”

“Then tell them to leave some of the aircrew behind and fly on three engines.”

Pits eyes opened. “Sir, that’s against NATOPS. If they fly that aircraft—”

“Senior Chief, NATOPS is fine for peacetime flying, but I—you—we have four fellow aircrew out there somewhere
and until someone senior to me orders us out of the air, we’re going to fly. Chuck, you tell Lieutenant Gregory that if he thinks the aircraft is too dangerous to fly, then stay put, have a fuel truck standing by, and they can take this EP-3E backup.”

“Yes, sir,” Peeters replied, dashing out of the cockpit and heading toward the radio position.

Pits leaned forward. “Sir, you know this could cost you your job, if they fly that aircraft without a full maintenance inspection, engine replacement, and drop check.”

Evans and Roberts looked at Greensburg, who didn’t acknowledge Pits’ words. Pits could see the man’s face reflected in the cockpit window, while the other two looked directly at it. Crazy Harry loved flying. He loved the aircraft and he loved his crew. Only now did they realize the priority of the immortal they followed.

Something glistened in the windshield. Pits’ brow wrinkled at what he thought were tears running down Greensburg’s cheeks at the same time that the copilot and flight engineer looked away. He shook his head and thought,
No way. This is an immortal and immortals don’t weep.

“Never mind, Skipper. There are times when the best actions are not always the right actions, but they’re the things we must do for a higher cause.”

“Senior Chief,” Crazy Harry said. “Bite me. Now, go get me a cup of coffee and quit this kid-glove thing.”

Pits nodded, slid off the seat, and headed back to the galley.
You weren’t going to get a sentimental comment from Crazy Harry.
Immortality carried certain morale requirements, and the three of them were witnessing an officer about to kill his career when the crewmembers he was doing it for may already be dead.

ROCKDALE PUSHED THE LIMBS OF THE BUSHES APART,
jumping back when a spider the size of his fist fell onto the jungle humus and quickly scurried away. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes he’d been in the thicket, and he was sure he was following the chief’s path because of how the humus was torn up. Plus, here and there, he could see where someone or something had broken a limb or torn off a bunch of new leaves. He squinted and leaned forward, concentrating on something hanging—it was part of a flight suit. Rockdale sighed for it confirmed he was on the right path.

He pushed forward, crawling on all fours as he backtracked Razi’s path. He glanced back several times, glad to see that his path remained marked along the ground by the disturbances that he and the chief had made. It shouldn’t be too hard to find his way back to MacGammon and Stetson.

Several minutes later, Rockdale stopped and squatted back on his haunches. He raised his head to find it blocked by the entwined brush, so he slid sideways, resting on his hip, his upper torso braced by his right hand. Rockdale wiped the sweat from his forehead. His tongue was thick against his lips and his eyes burned from the salt of the perspiration. For the first time today, he believed there was a good chance they may die out here, their bodies food for the wild animals.

As he rested, the faint sound of gunfire reached his ears. He turned his head slightly trying to discern from which direction the gunfire was coming. He slid forward onto his chest before pushing himself off the ground with both hands so he could turn his head. Rockdale paused, trying to remain motionless as he listened to the gunfire. Wherever it was, it sounded far away, but here in the jungle, noises didn’t travel far because of the natural insulation that abounded. Maybe it was closer than he thought. Above the
thicket in which Rockdale moved, the wind shifted direction and with it, the sound of gunfire was carried away.