Joint Task Force #4: Africa (30 page)

He waited for nearly two minutes, straining to hear it again. As he waited, he turned his attention to the path he was following. Here the chief had come from the left. A new sound caught his attention. The sound of radio static, and it was coming from somewhere nearby. He dropped to the jungle floor and started hurrying forward along the chief’s path, ignoring the occasional thorn ripping his hands and head. The harsh vines and limbs tore at his flight suit, ripping it in places, creating fresh feeding grounds for the swarms of mosquitoes that seemed to appear from nowhere, drawn to Rockdale by his sweat and heat.

He could hear voices now and knew somewhere ahead was a PRC-90, but the green of the survival vest blended with the surrounding vegetation, so Rockdale moved as quickly as he could. His eyes marking the trail he was backtracking as his ears listened for the radio to broadcast again. Rockdale’s hand hit a slick spot, slipping out from under him and causing him to fall, striking his chin on an upright stick. The stick slashed into his chin, enough to rip open the skin. Rockdale ignored the pain, jerking the stick out and continuing to scramble forward on all fours.

The ground here was torn up in several directions— probably from the animals that used it, but the mess camouflaged Razi’s path. Rockdale waited on hands and knees, surveying what little distance he could see, trying to discern which way the chief had traveled. Unable to tell which way to go, Rockdale opted to continue in the direction he was traveling. As he started forward, the radio broadcast again. The garbled voice came from behind him. The entwined limbs and vines trapped him, holding him in the direction he was heading. Rockdale fought against them, bloodying himself in the process until he finally
turned around. He scrambled back the way he had come. The sound of a voice broadcasting led him, his recklessness to find the radio causing him to slip and fall every few feet, earning him more cuts and abrasions.

Ten feet farther he heard the radio off to his left. Rockdale dove at the tangled vegetation, forcing the limbs apart, and like a treasure hidden from view, the chief’s survival vest hung from limbs above his head. Rockdale had crawled by the survival vest hanging overhead without ever seeing it.

He reached up and pulled the vest down, jerking it free of jungle growth that fought to keep its won prize. The radio fell out and disappeared behind the thick trunk of the bush. Rockdale reached behind the vegetation, blindly swiping his hand back and forth, patting the area, searching for the radio. Finally, his fingers touched the metal and a second later, Rockdale had the radio pulled free. The voice kept repeating their names. He started crying. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, his sobs came in long, drawn out moans as he blinked to clear his eyes so he could operate the radio.

Tears clouded his eyes. Here he was, the calm one, and he was crying like a baby. He was above this emotional bullshit, so why was he shaking? Rockdale started drawing slow, deep breaths. He held the PRC-90 tightly as if afraid he was going to drop it and lose it. This was their passport out of the jungle. This was the ticket home. His chest heaved as he concentrated on his breathing, bringing his emotions under control. The tears stopped, and he awkwardly wiped his eyes with a sleeve while both hands continued to hold the radio. A twenty-two-year-old sailor shouldn’t be here in the middle of an African jungle.

Several more minutes passed before Rockdale regained his composure and his eyes cleared. He took a deep breath
and said a few words aloud, ensuring himself he wouldn’t choke up on the radio.

He released the radio from the death grip he had on it and raised it near his face. Rockdale checked to ensure the radio switch was on VOICE before he pushed the button and spoke, knowing that overhead were friends and fellow sailors with no other mission in mind than finding them. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hug each and every one of them.

“WE GOT THEM!” PEETERS SHOUTED AS HE DASHED INTO
the cockpit. “The spooks have the signal DF’ed. We’re about five miles south of their location.”

Pits placed his hands on both sides of his perch as Commander Greensburg put the EP-3E into a left-hand turn.

“Let’s go get them,” Crazy Harry said. “Dell, let’s get some altitude so we don’t interfere with the helo. Chuck, Air Force inbound?”

“We’re passing the location to Colonel Hightower now.”

“Everyone okay?” Pits asked.

“We’re still getting information, Senior Chief. Most important thing was to get their location. Jonathan is taking the data,” Peeters said, referring to Lieutenant Jonathan Reed who was the mission commander on the earlier EP-3E mission when the four men bailed out.

Reed stuck his head through the curtain. “Boss,” he said to both the skipper and Peeters. “Carson is injured. We’ve passed that information on to Hightower. Looks as if they will have to crash the canopy and hoist Carson out via stretcher. Razi is missing. According to Rockdale, Chief Razi routed some armed men who were holding them at gunpoint and the last they saw of him he was chasing them through the jungle.”

Pits shook his head. Will this nightmare ever end? Razi was a pain in the ass before he bailed out. Now, there would be no living with him. “I’ll go back and see what I can do to help.”

“Like what?” Chief Roberts asked.

Pits shrugged. “Maybe call the helo and see how wide their doors are.”

“I’m sure the doors are wide enough for the stretcher.”

“I’m sure they are, too, but I don’t think they’re going to be wide enough for Razi’s head when we do find him.”

RAZI RAISED HIS HEAD, BLINKING HIS EYES, AND SLOWLY
turning it as he took in the sight in front of him. A ring of armed Africans surrounded him. A rough tree pressed against his back and when he tried to step forward, he discovered his hands and legs were tied firmly. He was naked except for his skivvy shorts. He looked down and saw where the rope was tied just above his ankles. He could move his knees a little, but not enough to pull his ankles free. But he pulled, and as he fought the constraints the Africans laughed. His flight suit was gone. The flight suit lay wadded up against a nearby bush. The pockets had been pulled inside out, revealing that whatever he had in those pockets were now in someone else’s.

“Let me go, you assholes!”

A tall, slender man, dressed in khaki shorts with a sleeveless shirt, stepped forward. “Welcome back, American,” he said. “Seems you have tried to kill Ojo too many times, and too many times you have failed.”

“What the hell is an Ojo, and who the hell are you?” Razi asked. Where were those man-eating lions when he needed them? How about those crocodiles? They’d be good right now.

The man pulled a long, slender knife from his belt. “I am General Kabaka, the future leader of the African National Army, and you’re going to help me rid our movement of Ojo.”

“I’d be more than happy to help you get rid of Ojo,” Razi said. He twisted his hands back and forth, feeling the rope slide slightly forward, off his wrist. Raze glanced to both sides and saw the audience were in front of him, unable to see his hands behind the tree.

The one called Kabaka stepped closer, within range of Razi’s hands, if he freed them. The African lifted the knife and with the backside of it, ran it down Razi’s chest. “You are a good specimen for a belt. But, this skin is spotted, ripped, and cut in so many places that to find a single length is going to be very hard.” He lifted the knife, turned his back to Razi, and spoke to the men watching.

Razi didn’t understand what Kabaka was saying. It wasn’t English. He pushed with his right hand and pulled with his left. The rope around his legs was going to be a problem. Even if he broke free, he’d fall forward onto his face. He took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours ago he would have been afraid. His eyes narrowed. Somewhere in the depths of his mind was a screaming ego shouting for him to beg, plead, do anything to live. The idea was appealing, but this man had no intention of letting him live. He was going to skin him alive. He’d read the intelligence reports enough to know this torture had been discovered in some of the villages razed by the African National Army.

Kabaka turned back to Razi. “Maybe your back is in better shape for a belt. You think I should try there?” He laughed.

“I wouldn’t,” Razi said, aware his voice had dropped as he became aware of what awaited him. “You wouldn’t be able to see my face and my screams would be muffled.”

Kabaka nodded a salute at Razi. “You are brave man, American. If you are so brave, then where are the others of your team so we may see if this bravery is something that runs through the veins of your special forces.”

“I’m not Special Forces, and I’m not a Navy SEAL.”

“Then why would someone dressed in jungle camouflage parachute into our area? Do you think we are stupid?”

“To answer the first question; that is a flight suit. We who fly aircraft wear them. As for the second question, I think you’ve already answered that yourself.”

Kabaka’s false smile dropped. He raised the knife quickly and slid the sharp blade down Razi’s chest, barely breaking the skin. “The top skin lasts a long time if separated from the fat directly beneath it.”

Pain raced through Razi, blinding him with its intensity, causing him to bite his lower lip, and shut his eyes. His breathing became deep and rapid.

“Go ahead, American, scream. It is good for the soul, and it makes great music for my ears.”

No way Razi was going to give the man the pleasure of hearing him scream. He changed the direction of his hands, pulling now with the left and pushing with the right. He pulled his wrists apart, trying to stretch the rope. All he wanted was to get his hands around Kabaka’s neck.

The knife was pulled away. Razi opened his eyes. Kabaka’s face was inches from his.

“I wanted to smell your fear, American. Fear is very odorous, you know.” Kabaka stepped back and glanced down at Razi’s underwear. “Most would have urinated by now.”

Suddenly, more Africans entered the clearing, their weapons raised. A stout, heavyset man, shorter than the lithe torturer standing in front of Razi walked into the center of the clearing.

“General Kabaka, what are you doing?”

Razi pulled his hands apart again and felt the tension give. He changed the movements of his hands.

“I have captured one of the Americans who is here to kill our leader, General Ojo.”

“General Ojo said the Americans were not to be harmed.”

Kabaka shrugged. “General Ojo did say that, but he is less concerned with his safety than we are. Is that not true, General Ezeji?”

Kabaka took a step forward. Ezeji raised his AK-47.

Razi watched with slight satisfaction that he recognized the weapon as an AK-47. He continued to work his bindings, feeling them loosen. He’d fall forward, but the man with the knife was still within striking distance. He was going to die here, but he was going to take this man with him. He shut his eyes for a moment and thought of his wife, Virginia, and his three children. They may never know what happened to him, but that would be good because they’d draw his entire paycheck for many years before the Navy decided he was no longer missing, but dead. And throughout the aviation community, the chiefs’ messes would speak of Chief Razi, who disappeared in the jungle trying to rescue his sailors. Somewhere they would name a chief’s club after him—The Chief Razi Chiefs’ Club.

“Why are you holding your weapons on me and my men? We are on the same side.”

Razi heard the click of the safety being released and opened his eyes. They were going to shoot him. He tugged on his hands.
Of course, I’d prefer to read the sign on the club myself.

“We are truly alone out here, Kabaka,” Ezeji said, dropping the title of general.

“What does that mean?”

“It means—”

The bindings came loose quicker than Razi was prepared. As he fell forward, he hollered his war cry, stretched his hands out and grabbed his torturer around the neck, taking Kabaka to the ground beneath him. The ropes around his ankles torn into his skin, sending fresh pain through his body, but he had the lesser weight of Kabaka beneath him, his hands tightening on the struggling man’s neck.

Ezeji raised his hand. “Stay where you are. Do not interfere,” he said in the native dialect of Kabaka’s tribe. His men pushed the barrels of their guns into the backs of Kabaka’s men, who dropped their Ak-47s onto the jungle floor.

Razi continued his war cry, screaming it at the top of his lungs. His meaty hands, strong from years of weightlifting, squeezed the man’s neck, shutting off his air. The struggling lessened, but Razi squeezed tighter, waiting for the bullets that would snuff out his life. At least this one man would never survive to torture someone else.

Kabaka’s right hand freed itself, the knife still in it. But, face down in the humus, Kabaka had little dexterity, so he brought the knife back and stabbed at Razi, but the knife only penetrated a couple of inches into Razi’s side before the African lost consciousness and the knife fell harmlessly onto the jungle floor.

Razi jerked the man’s head to the side and a loud snap caused Razi to stop his war cry. Beneath him the body shook uncontrollably as the nerve endings between the brain and the rest of the body released their hold on the man’s bodily functions. The odor of urine and feces filled the air.

“Cut him free,” Ezeji said, motioning one of Kabaka’s men forward.

Razi felt the ropes around his ankles let go. He pushed himself off the dead African, falling backward on his butt, waiting for the firing squad surrounding him to fire. After several seconds, he realized many of the Africans’ weapons lay on the ground and the stout fellow in front of him had his pointing down. Razi reached down and rubbed the numbness around his ankles. The painful tingling of the returning blood caused him to rub harder.

One of the Africans picked up the flight suit and tossed it to Razi, who watched it land at his knees, but he made no attempt to pick it up. Let them dress his body after they shot him, he thought.

“Looks to me, American, as if you need some medical attention.”