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  Holman laughed. “That’s why they call it politics, Leo. Truth is, I really don’t know if Thomaston will pursue that aim or not. When they evacuated him and his followers from Kingsville to the Boxer two years ago, he remarked how he equated their fight against Abu Alhaul — who had them trapped inside their armory and who outnumbered them ten to one — as their Alamo. So, he never said Liberia would eventually pursue statehood, but I came away with the impression that that was what he meant.”

  Upmann shuddered slightly. “I can’t imagine us accepting another state. We haven’t done it since Hawaii and Alaska, even when Puerto Rico voted for statehood.”

  “Puerto Rico would have been another state that would have given one political party an edge over the other.”

  “Then, having Liberia and Puerto Rico as states—”

  “Double the reason why it isn’t going to happen.”

  “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Wait and see,” Holman repeated. “It’s what we do best. Leo, who is the leader of this African Nationalist Army?”

  Upmann’s lower lip pushed up, his eyebrows scrunched together. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. He lifted his binoculars as if he were going to scan the horizon.

  “It’s Fela Azikiwe Ojo,” Holman said, rolling the African name out as if it were one word.

  Upmann dropped his binoculars. They swung from the cord around his neck like a clock pendulum. “How the hell did you know that? I can’t even pronounce one of his names, much less all of them.”

  Holman smiled. Davidson had briefed him early this morning before Upmann arrived, and they had spent some time going over the intelligence analysis of the African leader’s name. He started to tell Leo about the earlier briefing, but decided not to. It was amusing to amaze his chief of staff. “Seems the three names this African leader chose — by the way, he refers to himself as a general— originate from three different areas along Western Africa, which is why the intelligence agencies reached the conclusion it was an assumed name. A name given at birth would originate from names common to a specific area. Fela Azikiwe Ojo translates as ‘full vigor warrior of a difficult birth.’ Fela means warrior, Azikiwe is a male name for ‘full of vigor,’ and Ojo is from a West African name for someone who was a difficult birth.”

  “Admiral, you’ve definitely got to bone up on your conversation topics.”

  “I know, but I think you’ll find this interesting, Leo. He chose the name from a broad spectrum of West African male names. No single name he is using came from one location. Fela Azikiwe Ojo. Try to say it, Leo. It has a sing-song quality to it. A pleasing quality that rolls off the tongue. Creating a name with a wide geographical disparity is a great example of psych-ops; it’s another way to encourage Africans to rally to his cause.”

  Upmann tried it a couple of times with ill success. “Quit laughing, Admiral. Foreign languages have never been my forte. It’s easy for you, but it’s a tongue twister for me.” Upmann cocked his head to the side, running his hand over the top of his bald head, his broad hand lightly touching the gray hair along the sides. “How did you get this information? CNN? I know Mary must have provided some of it, but I read her reports when she debriefed me earlier, and none of this was in it.”

  Holman and Mary Davidson had sat in his office practicing the name back and forth to see who could say it the quickest and clearest. Holman nodded to himself. “Leo, when you make Admiral, you’ll discover how we flag officers are able to reach into thin air and discover little-known facts others are unable to see — or even comprehend.”

  “Oh, I don’t have to wait until, or if, I make Admiral, Admiral. I’ve seen flag officers pull facts out of thin air numerous times.”

  “Admiral!” came a shout from behind them.

  Holman turned.

  The Officer of the Deck rushed toward them, the man’s face red from running up three decks of stairs. The officer stopped in front of them and stood there, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

  “Admiral,” he gasped.

  “Take your time, son. Nothing’s so important you have to die from lack of breath.” A puff of cigar smoke enveloped the poor man’s face for a moment before the slight off-sea wind blew it skyward.

  “Probably, Lieutenant,” Upmann said, “if you ran more and worked out more, you wouldn’t be out of breath.”

  Holman cut his eyes at his chief of staff, knowing Upmann’s comment was also meant for him. He didn’t need others reminding him of his own battle of the bulge.

  “Yes, sir, Chief of Staff. Admiral, we just received a telephone report from Admiral Duncan James’s office at the Pentagon. Commander Raleigh’s home in Urbana, Maryland, was bombed about an hour ago.”

  “Captain Upmann, Commander Raleigh on that airplane?”

  “Should be on the Air Force Transport out of Norfolk, Admiral.”

  “Double check,” he ordered. Holman turned back to the OOD. “Lieutenant, any casualties? What else do you have?”

  “Not much, sir. Just Admiral James’s office called and said I was to pass it along to you ASAP. Said you would know the why of the bombing.”

  “Abu Alhaul,” Upmann offered.

  “Of course. Doesn’t seem the asshole is getting the message, is he?”

  “Sir, should I relay anything back to Admiral James?”

  “Not until we ensure that Commander Raleigh is airborne and on his way to Liberia.”

  “Sir, do you mind if I ask as to why Abu Alhaul would bomb Commander Raleigh’s home?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I don’t mind you asking, as long as you don’t mind me not answering. Dismissed.”

  The lieutenant saluted and quickly disappeared down the stairs leading back to the quarterdeck on the ground floor.

  “Abu Alhaul is sending a message to both Commander Raleigh and to us that his reach continues to penetrate America and that he hasn’t foregone his vendetta against the American he blames for the death of his family.”

  “Stupid, isn’t it.”

  “What is?”

  “You’re a known terrorist with equally dangerous people searching for you, and you’re so arrogant that you think you can have a normal life with family and friends surrounding you? And never expect some of them to get killed?”

  Holman scrunched the cigar out in the bucket of sand serving as an ashtray. “On the other hand, our knowing that he wanted to get to Tucker Raleigh was what proved Alhaul’s downfall when he tried to sail a weapon of mass destruction into Norfolk Harbor earlier.”

  “I guess the question is, if Abu Alhaul is targeting this one man for past transgressions, and Abu Alhaul is currently in Western Africa, then why are we sending Raleigh to where he will be more vulnerable?”

  Holman shrugged. “Don’t know, but I would suspect— knowing Admiral James and having spent some quality time with Commander Raleigh — that neither of them intend to allow Abu Alhaul to dictate Raleigh’s way of life.”

  “They could have sent another SEAL to train the new Liberian Army.”

  “Sure, they could have, but Tucker Raleigh is attached to the staff of Admiral James. I’m unsure what his specific job title is, but I know it’s in the SEAL training field.”

  “Still seems like a bad idea to me.”

  “Have to admit, I don’t know why they’re sending him either; unless it’s meant to send a message to Abu Alhaul that we’re not scared of him or his threats.”

  Upmann nodded. “If someone bombed my house, he’d have earned my fear.”

  “Then again, Leo, you and I aren’t Navy SEALs.”

  “True, sir,” Upmann said. “Admiral, with your permission, I’ll get below and make sure Commander Raleigh is airborne.”

  The two started toward the stairs.

  “I’ll brief you as soon as I know anything else.”

  Holman led the way down. “As for myself, I’ll be in my office, calling retired Lieutenant General Thomaston in Monrovia. I don’t want Commander Ral
eigh to land in Monrovia without some additional security. It’ll also give me a chance to see if Thomaston has any additional data on this Fela Azikiwe Ojo.”

  Admiral Holman reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Sir, you know it’s pretty early in the morning in Liberia.”

  “What are you trying to say, Leo? Not to call the interim President of Liberia when we have concerns over a Navy officer’s safety? Besides, Leo, it’s only about one in the morning there. Army Rangers don’t sleep, so Thomaston is probably lonely for company. Even with all of this, Leo, we can’t forget what may have happened to those Air Force fighters. Any death is bad, but in this instance, let’s hope they collided with each other.” Holman reached to open the side door of the building. “The other prospect is something I’ve never envisioned.”

  “Me neither, sir.”

  “But, it’s something we can’t talk about out here in the open.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Any day that begins with a telephone call from the Pentagon is a bad day. Means someone somewhere is excited about something and when someone in the Pentagon is excited, it means a lot of work for those further down the food chain. And it must be important for them to catch him before he even sat his first cup of coffee on his desk.

  The day grew worse when he stepped off the helicopter onto the Pentagon helo pad and saw the brown smear, from God knew where, running along the bottom two-button line of his white summer uniform shirt and touching the edge of his belt line. He thought, Holman, you stupid shit. You really know how to make a damn good first impression. Little things such as this were ankle biters. Ankle biters were never huge problems, but small ones that detracted from whatever major issue you were pursuing. The stain just added to the disruption Washington causes when it comes calling.

  The lanky lieutenant stepped behind Holman, changing from the admiral’s right side to his left, where juniors walked in deference to their superiors. Holman’s head followed the position shift as they walked toward the Pentagon entrance. Man’s got no waist! he thought. If Holman had been with someone he knew, he’d have said something about the stain. He glanced down, touched it briefly, and for a second nearly touched his finger to his lips. He dropped his hand. What if it’s not coffee? What if it’s some sort of oil product from the helicopter? Helicopters always had some kind of leak.

  The lieutenant dashed ahead and opened the door for Holman. “Admiral,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway inside the Pentagon.

  What in the hell did he think I was going to do? Stop at it and ask what was inside?

  He’s probably a fine young officer, Holman argued with himself, but no way was he going to ask this lanky, physical-readiness Mafiosi—if they have thin waists, then they exercise too much—whom his Chief of Staff Captain Leo Upmann set up on the spur of the moment to be his executive aide for the trip. He didn’t like EAs. Not because they couldn’t be useful, but because they were too useful. You couldn’t open a door, pull out your chair, or grab a cup of coffee. About the only thing remaining they didn’t do for you was unzip you and zip you back up when you were finished. Admiral Dick Holman, Commander Amphibious Group Two, walked along the eighth corridor of the Pentagon. Portraits of past Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stared down on him from both walls as he headed toward the “E” ring. He glanced at each row of medals aligned beneath each portrait. It was a matter of interest to see what the highest military medal each one wore and which had the Purple Heart. The Purple Heart medal identified the bearer as wounded in the service of his country. Holman’s eyes may have been following the displays of military award, but his mind drifted elsewhere.

  His eyes avoided contact with the young lieutenant as they shifted from one wall to the other, tracking the portraits as they trailed past. This young lieutenant had immediately jumped into the fun of being an executive aide, bossing him around, as if he owned him. Even to the point of tactfully insisting, “The Admiral might want to wear his khakis or flight suit and change into his whites once in Washington.” But, no, he had to show he was an admiral.

  One of these days, he would listen to those whose duties it was to provide him advice. Now, when he returned to Norfolk, he was going to have to listen to a tall, African-American surface warfare officer give a protracted diatribe about why airdales never listen. Almost like a Jerry Springer show: “Airdales never listen, and their mothers who made them that way.”

  If Leo wasn’t such a damn good chief of staff, he’d have shitcanned him to some cruiser command months ago. Unfortunately, though they’d never publicly admit it, airdales lacked in-depth knowledge of how to drive ships, so they depended on deputies such as Upmann to keep them from running a task force aground. He knew Upmann knew this, but damn if he was going to give a surface warfare officer the pleasure of admitting it. Moreover, he wasn’t going to send him to command a cruiser, damn it. The man had already done a tour as a commanding officer of a Ticonderoga-class cruiser, enjoyed it too much, and was ranked number one of twenty-five commanding officers. No, he had worse plans in store for his chief of staff. He was going to see the man put on an admiral’s star and watch him pace the time away, pining for the smell of salt water across a rolling deck instead of manning a desk. Holman smiled as he imagined the words Upmann would use when the epiphany of how hamstrung admirals actually were in determining their future came over him like a bad dream.

  Dick reached for his handkerchief as he neared the second stairwell to his left. He nearly had his hand in his back pocket when he stopped and pulled it back. He had touched that brown smear only moments ago. What if he had dirt, oil, or something on his hand from touching it? He didn’t need more accidents to further mar the summer uniform, and he wasn’t going to draw more attention than necessary to himself by reaching completely across his rear end with his left hand to get that handkerchief.

  Dick spotted the head to his left and quickly swung direction toward the men’s room. Quick pit stop to see if he could do something about the brown spot. The young, spry lieutenant, wearing the gold epaulet of a one-star admiral’s aide, slowed so Dick didn’t run into him as he crossed the young man’s bow.

  “I’m going to hit the head,” Holman mumbled.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll wait here.”

  “Good. This is something I can handle alone.” He caught the creep of red up the young man’s neck as he pushed the door open. He should let up, but damn it. It just wasn’t the Navy way.

  Pat Willis… that was the young man’s name. Willis hadn’t been aboard Amphibious Group Two three months, and other than the “welcome aboard” meeting with Holman the first week, Holman hadn’t seen the man again.

  “Pat, what time’s our meeting with the chairman and that lady from the National Security Council?” Holman asked as he pushed the door to the bathroom open.

  “You have twenty-eight minutes, sir,” the EA replied. “Admiral, would you like me to see about replacing that shirt?”

  “Lieutenant, where are you going to get a replacement shirt at this short notice? The Navy Annex, up beside Arlington National Cemetery, is the nearest, and you’d never make it there and back in time.” He paused and looked back at the aide. “Pat, next time look at your watch as if you’re checking the time. At least pretend. If you’re going to be my EA, make your job look hard, so the other admirals will be impressed,” Holman said, trying to sound friendly. He disappeared into the head before the man could reply.

  Minutes later he emerged. The brown recycled paper provided by the Department of Defense for drying hands had smeared the stain into a broad streak. Now, it ran from the second bottom buttonhole above the waistline and across the top of the belt line. Made it looked as if he had a mishap on the toilet. He caught the quick glance of his EA’s wide eyes staring at the spreading stain.

  “Dick!”

  Holman looked back toward the center of the Pentagon. Walking toward him from the “A” wing was Rear Admiral “two-stars” Duncan James, head of Navy SEALS,
a tall, muscular, mid-fifties warrior with close-cropped graying hair and a pair of knees that had long ago lost their warranty for combat.

  “Duncan, I hear you and I have been invited to some sort of top secret meeting with some demon from the National Security Council,” Holman said as they shook hands.

  “It seems this is the only time we ever meet, Dick. When you’re in trouble, getting out of trouble, or about to leap or be thrown into trouble.”

  They turned and walked side by side down the corridor toward the outer “E” ring. Lieutenant Willis took position several steps behind the two admirals. Close enough to respond if Holman called and far enough way so they could talk in a semblance of privacy.

  “You’re looking good, Duncan,” Holman said. “And, you’re walking as if your knees are better.”

  “I should be so lucky. I think Bethesda Orthopedics has given up on me, so I’ve been taking…”

  The two of them had met several years ago when both were captains. At the time, Holman was a pudgy commanding officer of an aircraft carrier and Duncan was on the verge of being forced to retire by a vindictive flag officer. Friendship forged in combat is like steel: it survives a lot of punishment before it bends. It had been the summer of 2011 when a Libyan Islamic madman had nearly united the whole of North Africa from Morocco to Sudan under the banner of radical Islam. The potential power of such a nation threatened the stability of the world and the security of the United States.

  Duncan had gone into Algeria with two teams of SEALs to rescue its last democratically elected president, only to return a couple of weeks later into Algiers to rescue a bunch of American hostages being held by Islamic terrorists.

  During the conflict, Holman had been “fleeted up,” as the term goes when you ascend to authority from within the chain of command. One moment, he was commanding officer of the USS Stennis, a mighty aircraft carrier that he had sailed through a mined Strait of Gibraltar, and the next, he was a four-striper captain in charge of all air power in the Sixth Fleet. It had been Holman’s aircraft that had saved Duncan when he and his SEAL teams attempted to escape Algeria the first time only to run into the remnants of the Algerian Navy. When the crisis passed, the United States Navy selected both of them for Admiral, and along with the selection came awards of Silver Stars for both of them.