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  “Sounds like a success story to me.”

  Thomaston bit his lower lip, pensive for moment. “In a way, it is. What most Americans fail to understand is that we Americo-Liberians make up less than three percent of Liberia’s population. Another five percent trace their heritage back to the United States and the Caribbean Islands. The United States and repatriated Africans from the Caribbean Islands made up the bulk of the former slaves transported here in the early eighteen hundreds.”

  “Eight percent.”

  “Right. Eight percent of the people of Liberia are our true base. The remaining ninety-two percent are native Liberians, native to the tribes who inhabited this country long before America decided to repatriate slaves to Africa.” He leaned forward again. “Did you know the only reason we started this repatriation back in the early eighteen hundreds was because we were following the British in their experiment with Sierra Leone?” He leaned back in the chair.

  Dick held the pastry plate toward Thomaston, who took another one. Good, good.

  “The first trip from America back to Africa offloaded the repatriated slaves in Sierra Leone.” He bit into the pastry, much to Dick’s enjoyment.

  Thomaston reached out and topped off his coffee.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see what the problem is, Daniel,” Dick said. “In setting up a democracy, various factions compete for power, though in a perfect world, it should be programs and positions that carry the day. That’s the way America is and was built.”

  “This isn’t America,” Thomaston replied as a crumb tumbled down his chin.

  Dick detected a slight ire in the response and nodded. “I guess you’re going to tell me America doesn’t really understand the challenges you are facing here in Liberia. I guess I should add that most Americans aren’t engaged on a daily basis with much of what goes on outside their local areas. I think we both know that. So, what is your concern about the different origins of Liberians?”

  “My concern is that there has always been an underlying prejudice by the native Liberians against us Americo-Liberians, whom they view as interlopers.”

  “Kind of like a carpetbagger.”

  Thomaston nodded. “Good analogy. There will be those who will abuse these new freedoms to throw a wedge between our two groups, instead of working to make us one people.”

  “I would submit, General, that with the terrorist Abu Alhaul and the African National Army running around, the fact of a common threat will promote unity, even though I agree with you that Liberia has passed the point where it has to be too concerned about a resurgence. Just have to have a sense of alert awareness. You agree?”

  “I do,” Thomaston replied, wiping his chin with a napkin from the table. “And I am confident that the majority of native Liberians will stand with us Americo-Liberians against a resurrection of the Jihadist movement.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on the chair arms, with his hands raised, fingers laced together. “This is the second reason I came here. The Jihadist movement is dead in Liberia. Sure, there are a few simmering sections, but local authorities have them well in hand. What we don’t have in hand is the cry for African nationalism being heralded by this so-called General Ojo and his African National Army.”

  “They’re staying out of Liberia, I’m told,” Dick replied. “And they haven’t done anything that would cause us to get too excited, though we are watching them.”

  “For the time being, they are staying out of Liberia. I had an audience with the French ambassador a couple of months ago, who told me of an incident at one of their air bases in the Ivory Coast where the African National Army attacked and destroyed one of their aircraft.”

  Dick nearly choked on the coffee he had just swallowed. The man was referring to the so-called Joint Task Force France that he authorized and his Seabees in Harper, Liberia, executed. He glanced up, to meet the hard stare of Thomaston.

  “Admiral, I think you’ve just answered a curious itch of mine.”

  “Itch? Don’t know what you mean, General.”

  “Oh, don’t get too proper with me.” Before Dick could reply, Thomaston continued. “My intelligence service, which is basically human intelligence — HUMINT, you and I would call it — have discovered that a rogue American element may have been involved. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Dick set his cup on the table in front of them. “I know nothing about the Africans attacking the French, but I hope they were successful.”

  Thomaston laughed. “I really have you against the ropes, don’t I, Admiral.” He unlaced his hands and lifted his cup again.

  “What—”

  Thomaston shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me, Dick. I’m not going to press you for the truth. It’s probably something I don’t want to know, but eventually my contacts at the American Embassy will fill in the blanks for me. Besides, my issue isn’t with your incursion into the Ivory Coast, though the continuing bickering between our country— America — and France impacts the fragile, but growing economy of Liberia. We’re like two sibling brothers who can’t decide whose turn it is to throw the ball.”

  “Dan, you know I have no control over the politics of our nation nor those of other nations,” Holman said. “Like you when you were on active duty, I fight our nation’s wars to win. I don’t determine what battlefield on which I will fight nor do I decide who my adversary is; I execute the orders of the President of the United States.”

  Thomaston drained his coffee. He laughed as he put the cup down. Dick offered him another pastry. “Admiral, I think you’re trying to get me fat.”

  “If I had your metabolism, Dan, I’d eat everyone of them.” He put the plate back on the table. “When you leave, I insist you take them with you.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better about our country. When I was commander of the 82nd Airborne, I marched to the drums of the politicians. But I’m not now. I’m retired, my country allows me to draw the pension of a three-star Army general, and also allows me to hold dual citizenship. Liberia is my other nation, a nation I now lead. I probably have more control over America’s politics as president of Liberia than you do as a one-star admiral.” Thomaston leaned forward. “I sound like one of those checker players on the steps of an old Georgian courthouse, talking about ‘way back when I was’ stories. I have an important reason for meeting you pierside, Dick, rather than wait for your formal visit tomorrow.”

  Dick’s eyebrows bunched, questioningly.

  Thomaston leaned back. “Let me give you some background first. I told you my challenges in Liberia between us Americo-Liberians and those who consider themselves native Liberians. Well, my intelligence service is telling me that a large portion of the native Liberians are supporters of this African National Army. You know the old adage, Dick: one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. So far, the ANA have remained out of Liberia. For you to keep within classified channels, I have a spy that is very close to this General Ojo. For the time being, the ANA is on our side because this Ojo is after the same person we are — Abu Alhaul. This Ojo has a unique way of dealing with the Jihadists that we, as Americans, could never do.”

  Dick waited as Thomaston paused. If a method of dealing with the growing threat of terrorism was out there and it was effective, then why wouldn’t we use it? he asked himself.

  “I’ll satisfy your curiosity on their method shortly,” Thomaston said in answer to the unasked question. “Right now, the ANA wants to rid Africa of the Jihadists just as we do. They then intend to turn their attention to the other nongovernment agencies in West Africa who are not African in nature. I’m sure you’re aware of the Baptist and Mormon missionaries, along with several priests and nuns, whom they’ve physically escorted out of what they believe to be their areas. This is only the start.” Thomaston uncrossed his legs. “Eventually they will engage the Western powers — mainly the U.S. and France — but my sources tell me they will use the United Nations and the world press as their vehic
les for driving you — and those of us with dual citizenship — out of Africa. The primary reason the ANA has steered clear of Liberia is you — the growing presence of American forces. That hasn’t stopped them from recruiting Liberians into their forces. It has kept them from conducting operations within this country, but it hasn’t kept their fiery rhetoric out of Liberia.”

  “What can we do?”

  Thomaston shrugged. “You can share your information with our intelligence services, for one. The other is you can track them better and quicker than we can with your satellites and aircraft.”

  “We have a VQ-2 EP-3E Aries II bird flying down here now.”

  “That’s true. You also have another arriving tomorrow to relieve this one. We are committed to giving you all the bases you want. Now, I can’t say that whoever the people elect to take my place will feel the same.”

  “So, how does this General Ojo defeat the Jihadists? Win the hearts and minds of the people like you have?”

  Before Thomaston could reply, several sharp raps on the door leading into the compartment from the passageway interrupted them. Holman opened his mouth to say, “ enter,” but it opened abruptly and Captain Leo Upmann stepped inside.

  “Admiral, General,” he said, nodding slightly at both, before looking directly at Holman. “Admiral, our aircraft has taken a missile hit.”

  “Which aircraft?” They had two helicopters airborne enroute to the Seabees at Harper and several helicopters off-loading the Marines at their encampment north of Monrovia. Every one of those CH-53 Super Stallions had been launched before they entered the port of Monrovia.

  “The EP-3E.”

  Holman and Thomaston stood.

  “And their status?” Dick asked as he headed toward the door. He looked back at Thomaston. “General, my apologies, but duty calls.”

  “Admiral, if my government can be of any assistance—”

  “Thanks, we may need it.” Dick said as he stepped through the doorway and hurried quickly down the passageway, heading toward Combat Information Center.

  Behind him, Thomaston motioned his aide into the room. He picked up the remaining two pastries, wrapped them in a napkin, and quickly left. “What’s happening?” he asked the younger man.

  “Seems a SAM has hit the American reconnaissance aircraft while it was on track north of our border.”

  Thomaston nodded as they stepped into the passageway and the two of them started toward the exit. “We need to see what we can find out as to whether there are any survivors or not.”

  “From what I gathered, the aircraft hasn’t crashed.”

  “Yet. Aircraft with missiles through them tend to crash. Where did the missile hit?”

  “We don’t know yet, Admiral. All we have is their mayday, and last update is they’re heading back to homeplate.”

  “That’s Monrovia. Let’s hope they make it back. Get me my vehicle. We’re going to the airport.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The wind whipped his flight suit against his body, the cloth beating painlessly against the back of his legs. Razi spread his arms and legs as far as he could, emulating the style he had seen on television, but never, ever thought he’d do it himself. By God, who in their right mind would jump out of a perfectly good aircraft? Granted, the aircraft had been on fire. They probably canceled the bailout because the engine fire had been controlled.

  A part of his terrified mind was pleased to see the maneuver steady him in midair. Where were the cheering crowds when he needed them? He was face down hurling toward the green carpet of African jungle beneath him, a carpet that stretched as far as he could see. The bright African sun lit up the green canopy below him. The colors seemed so vivid to him. Maybe that was because he was heading — what was the max speed of a falling body? One hundred and eighteen miles per hour was max speed. No way he could calculate when he’d hit the trees. Shit! His wife balanced the checkbook. His parachute! Where in the hell was it. The panic hit and vanished in a second. His parachute was on his back, strapped tight, waiting for him to pull the ripcord.

  Razi raised his head. To the right and below about a mile away floated the three parachutes of his aircrewmen, descending toward the jungle. They were together. That’s one thing in his favor. He didn’t relish the idea of being alone in the jungle.

  He should have connected the static line to the bailout rail before he jumped like those lucky sons of bitches! Razi pulled his right hand toward the ripcord located top-right on his chest. His body tilted to the right, he quickly pulled the left hand inward to correct the balance. Thought, This is way too easy. Razi’s right hand gripped the handle just as his body arched forward and sent Razi into a headlong rush toward the earth. Damn! The screaming that was disturbing him was coming from his own throat. He jerked the handle — thirty-five pounds of pressure opened it. The handle end appeared in his hand, startling him for moment before he recalled that was supposed to happen. He dropped the handle, the wire on the end whipping his legs as it fell earthward.

  Behind Razi, the parachute opened. The pilot parachute rippled out first, a small caricature of the main parachute. The small pilot anchored itself in the airstream, pulling the main canopy from the parachute assembly. The 28-foot, flat canopy immediately followed the pilot parachute, unfolding rapidly, a snapping blossom as the canopy grabbed and trapped the wind beneath it, jerking the chief petty officer upward at sixty miles an hour and away from his headlong fall. His screams picked up in intensity as he shot upward, and he made several promises to God such as giving up beer, quit wasting prayers on the Washington Redskins, and stop having eyeball-orgies when out with his wife. The parachute fully unfolded. Razi reached the crest of the upward jerk and fell downward; the suspension lines running from his harness to the main canopy brought him up short, and Razi came to a swinging stop beneath the parachute. His breath came in rapid, short gasps while his lips continued to mouth “Thank you, God; thank you, God; thank you, God.” Everything was dark. Somewhere in the past few seconds Razi had clamped his eyes so tightly shut, it took another several seconds for him to will them open. When he did, the trees seemed closer.

  He forced his attention away from his own fall, looking in the direction where he thought the other parachutes should be. Nothing. He turned his head side to side and Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson were nowhere to be seen. Where in the hell where they? They couldn’t have landed yet. He had a brief feeling of anxiety, wondering how in the hell he was going to land near them if he didn’t know where they were?

  Razi reached up, pulled the right suspension line, and congratulated himself when he turned. His breathing was slowing as the shock of bailing out was replaced by self-congratulations on how well he was doing. Man, oh man, he was great with this. Wait until happy hours at the Rota chief’s club. Line those drinks up, me laddies, and let me tell you about when I bailed out of Ranger 20.

  A slight movement caught his attention. There they were. During his own fall and riding the opening of his parachute, Razi had came out of the parachute opening with his back to the three other parachutes. His three aircrewmen, as he thought of them, seemed to be the same distance as when he first spotted them. He looked up at the parachute canopy. Now, how did he go about playing with the suspension lines to maneuver his parachute toward them? One thing he did recall from bailout training, which consisted of twenty hours of classroom and jumping off a ten-foot-high ramp to ride a cable down to the ground, was that you could, by manipulating the suspension lines, cause the air inside the parachute to tilt out one side or the other, thereby changing your direction and, with luck, push yourself into a safe landing zone. This was very handy when you violated certain well-known, but unwritten rules such as never bailing out over a place you’ve just bombed or strafed. In this instance, that specific rule applied here. Someone down below had fired that missile.

  Another thing he recalled about bailout, as his stomach muscles started to relax from the mind-numbing, fear-filled worry of whether the parac
hute was going to open or not, was the warning echoing in his mind that if he pulled the suspension line too hard, it could cause the wind to spill out too fast, collapsing the parachute, and sending him hurling toward the ground and slamming into it like a dull dart off of a brick wall. Only bodies don’t bounce when they hit the earth. If they do, Razi was sure it’d be a sloshing sound slapping the earth the second time. His stomach tightened again. He brought his hand down from the suspension cord without pulling it. A second later he gripped it again. The harness may hold you to the line that held you to the parachute, but something in the human psyche made him want to hold on. He glanced down at the leg straps: Those crisscrossed three-inch-wide canvas straps capable of turning him into an alto.

  He lifted his head, watching the three parachutes descending together. Why in the hell did I do this? he thought. I know what I said sounded good, and, it’s going to sound even better when I have a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other, but I’m not a mutter-frigging SEAL or trainedkiller. I’m a cryptologic technician. I operate electronic and reconnaissance equipment. I make love, not war. And, I don’t bail out of aircraft because— Shit! I did this to myself! Who’s leadership book was I believing when I bailed out? My own? Remind me to kick the shit out of myself when — when, hell — if I get back.

  He reached up and without thinking about the dangers, jerked the suspension line downward. His stomach tensed. Damn, his waistline was getting a hell of a workout. At the same instant he jerked the suspension cord, Razi glanced at the three aircrewmen and thought they seemed farther away. They need me more than I need them right now, he told himself, and unless I get to them before—