Joint Task Force #4: Africa Read online

  A hand touched his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly. The pressure within his ears had hidden the approach of General Darin, the child-warrior from Liberia, now a young man, who was his youngest general. The young man’s mouth moved, but Ojo couldn’t understand him; the words were garbled. Ojo opened his mouth and wiggled his lower jaw until the air pressure in his ears released with a pop. The screams heralded the cascade of familiar sounds he had come to greet as familiar with the end of combat. They flooded his hearing. Ojo raised his AK-47 and quickly scanned the area. What if the Americans were also on the ground?

  “What happened?” he asked Darin as his eyes surveyed the scene, searching for an attack, tilting his head to see if could hear gunfire elsewhere.

  “It was a missile, General. An American missile. The aircraft came back. One moment the engine noise was increasing and the next a missile broke through the trees and exploded.”

  “Ezeji?”

  Darin pointed to where a group of men stood. “He is badly shaken.” The young man reached forward and touched Ojo’s shoulder. “More important; are you okay?”

  Shouts and orders for everyone to be quiet drew Ojo’s attention before he could answer. Marching through the carnage was General Kabaka, surrounded by his warriors. Here was the mercurial general who wore a belt made of human skin. It was not lost on Ojo that the belt was black. This was not the time to have Kabaka near him. A tree limb crashed to the ground fifty yards from where they stood, causing Kabaka to jump aside. A fleeting pleasure even as Ojo saw the man’s eyes never left him. If Kabaka wanted, he could kill him, Ezeji, and Darin, and seize control of the African National Army. He would do it, if roles were reversed. On the other hand, Kabaka was more a tactical adversary than one who pondered strategic moves. Ojo glanced at his AK-47. At this very moment, he was at his most vulnerable. How stupid of the Americans to try to kill him!

  Kabaka stopped a few feet from Ojo. “I am glad to see you are alright, General,” he said in a tone that made Ojo doubt its sincerity. He watched the volatile general’s head turn as the lithe killer surveyed the area. Kabaka turned back to Ojo, their eyes locking for several seconds before Kabaka looked away and pointed to the top of the trees. Sunlight broke through a large hole in the canopy. “I hope you believe me now when I say the Americans want to kill you.”

  Ojo glanced over Kabaka’s shoulder to the right. Ezeji was standing, supported by two Nigerians from Ezeji’s division. Unseen by Kabaka, the Nigerian general said something to the two soldiers and they released him, only to grab him again as his knees buckled. The huge Nigerian shook their hands off and started toward Ojo. The other Nigerians followed.

  Ojo straightened. His vulnerability was being reduced every second. He met Kabaka’s stare. “Are we sure it was the Americans and not Abu Alhaul, who we know has missiles?” Ojo asked, knowing it was the Americans, but not wanting to give Kabaka the pleasure of being right.

  Kabaka laughed. “Oh, General Ojo, you do love the Americans, and they love you so much they keep trying to kill you. Of course, the terrorists have missiles, but they are surface-to-air missiles designed to shoot down aircraft.” He pointed to the opening overhead. “This missile came from the air. It is indeed a blessing,” he said with a trace of derision, “that you are still alive.” He turned as Ezeji entered his vision. “Ah, I see even the Nigerian has survived the assassination attempt by the Americans. What a pity you are wounded.”

  “General Ojo, are you okay?” Ezeji asked.

  “Of course, he is okay,” Kabaka snapped. “The Americans failed to kill him again.” He faced Ojo and ran his eyes up and down the leader of the African National Army. “He is invulnerable. Nothing can kill our leader; not even the Americans with their superior technology.”

  “Maybe it was the Americans,” Ojo admitted. “If it were the Americans—”

  “No one else was flying above us!” Kabaka interrupted. “It is time to realize that regardless of what your time schedule and plans are for dealing with the Western powers, they know of them. Why would they try to kill you— and us,” he continued, pounding his chest, “When you have taken great pains to avoid antagonizing them?”

  “I refuse to believe—”

  Ezeji sighed. “For once, as much as I hate to, I must agree with General Kabaka, General Ojo. I can fathom neither reason nor rationale for the unprovoked attack. You have returned their missionaries unharmed. You have avoided intruding into Liberia, though we did chase the Jihadists into the Cote D’Ivoire. Every signal you have sent them has been one of appeasement.”

  “And we are marching along the northern border of Liberia inside the country of Guinea. Guinea! Another American ally in this so-called war against terrorism!” Kabaka’s voice rose and his hands gesticulated dramatically. “It isn’t terrorism the Westerners led by the Americans want to see dead. It is any form of resistance against their might.” Kabaka pounded his chest several times. “We are a threat to their omnipotence. We present the people with options—”

  “I think we should take care of the wounded,” Ojo said, raising his hand palm out toward the angry general. Maybe Kabaka was right and he, Ojo, had been blinded by his own arrogance. Arrogance in believing he could outsmart the superpowers that surround Africa. America may be a hyperpower, as the French call it, but for poverty-ridden Africa, any country that could muster a foreign policy was a superpower, and all Ojo wanted, or so he told himself, was to pave a better way of life for his people. Of course, being in charge was always the preferable way of making improvements.

  “The wounded are dead,” Kabaka said. “All the grace, good manners, and ‘oohing and awing’ won’t save someone with open wounds from the angry, invisible man-eaters that ride the winds in our hot, humid jungles.” The angry Kabaka turned sideways and waved an arm in a broad sweep around them. “Look! Look closely. There is an arm there; a leg near that bush; and, that round bushy thing surrounded by wet clay was moment’s ago someone’s head.” He looked at Ezeji. “General Ezeji, you are lucky your head wound is shallow. Mud packed across it may protect you.”

  “We must do what we must do.”

  Kabaka turned angrily to Ojo and drew his long machete. “I will take care of the wounded. They will only slow us down.”

  Ojo nearly took a step back. He drew his right arm closer to his side, slipping his finger onto the trigger of the AK-47. He wondered for a moment if the safety was on or off? He nearly looked down.

  “I will deal with the wounded,” Kabaka said, waving the machete back and forth in front of him. “Better a quick, unexpected death than the long, drawn-out pain as they watch the red snake creep upward from their wounds toward their heads and heart.”

  Ojo’s eyes widened. Kill the very men who had followed him throughout the growing campaign?

  Ezeji reached forward and touched Ojo for a moment before dropping his hand. “For once Kabaka is right, General. We do not have the medicine or the means to save these men. We only have a man who once worked in a hospital, and I doubt he was more than an orderly.”

  “How many—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “General Kabaka, if we are going to kill our own men, then we should know how many.”

  Darin, who had stood respectfully a few feet behind Ojo during the entire exchange, stepped up to the three generals. “General Ojo, there are no more than ten who are wounded. Most should be able to have their wounds bandaged and rejoin the army. If we kill these ten, then there are ten dead. If we allow them to live and even one lives, then that is one more soldier for the ANA.”

  “They would slow us down,” Kabaka argued.

  “They are my soldiers!” Darin rebutted. “I will take care of them.”

  “Then they are the walking dead who will slow us down and bring more walking dead into their ranks.”

  “They will be able to do their jobs.”

  “You are wrong,” Kabaka said, taking a step toward Darin.

  Ojo saw Dar
in glance at the machete.

  “And you are too young and inexperienced to recognize when death is a valuable weapon for an army, even when ministered from within.”

  “Do not mistake my youth for inexperience, General Kabaka, nor my patience for cowardice. I have been fighting since I was five. War is my mother and father. It is the family that has embraced me since I learned not to wet my pants.” He nodded toward the machete. “Is that for the wounded? Are you going to be the one who wields it? Do you think those who are wounded, but alert will lay there, stretch their necks, and say thanks?” He turned to Ojo. “General, if we kill our own men, word will filter first through the nearer troops before erupting like a burst dam to flood through the will of the remaining soldiers.”

  “Kabaka is right. They will slow us down and if they become worse, then we have little choice but to leave them.” Ezeji turned to Kabaka. “Rather than killing them, we should make them comfortable and leave them behind to either heal or die.”

  “Then you would subject them to a slow torture. My men are used to killing—”

  “No one should be used to killing,” Ezeji objected. “Killing is what we do because we have to do it. Not because we want to do it.”

  “Enough,” Ojo said. “Leave this argument for another time. We will leave the wounded. Ahead of us waits the coming battle with Abu Alhaul, and though the Americans may—I say may—have been the ones who fired on us, we will not allow it to distract us from our plans. We will discuss this later.”

  OJO SIPPED THE HOT CUP OF TEA. KABAKA HAD FAILED TO return to his command as Ojo had expected; instead the man had remained, even making the tea himself as they reconstituted their forces for the continued march forward. Ezeji had sent a runner to his soldiers telling them of the plans, estimating a couple of hours for them to arrive. With Ojo’s blessing he had given the captain leading the soldiers permission to make his own decision to engage the Arabs, if it appeared they might escape the trap.

  The thrashing of bushes drew their attention. Child warriors who were the point men for the ANA emerged through the brush. A young warrior, his eyes wide and his breath coming in quick gasps, stopped in front of Ojo. Ojo waited for several seconds, while the lad regained his breath, recognizing the admiration in the young African’s eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Parachutes, General Ojo. Three men landed in the trees several kilometers to the north, ahead of us. They are trapped, caught on the limbs. I hurried back—”

  “I will go,” Kabaka said, stepping toward the young boy. “I will go, and what I bring back will be a lesson to those who stand in our way.”

  Ojo reached out and touched Kabaka on the arm, causing the angry general to jump. “No, we will move forward toward Abu Alhaul. We will leave whoever is in the parachutes to their fate. I will not allow something else to distract us. Those in the trees are trapped. Leave them. They are out of our path, and we will avoid them as we move forward.”

  “They are Americans! Americans like the ones sent into Cote D’Ivoire to kill you; only this time they have miscalculated. They are trapped in the trees so we won’t have to worry about where they are. We know why they are here. We can kill them from afar. They will never see who killed them or even know the bullets are coming until they enter their bodies.”

  “Why do you want to kill them, Kabaka?” Ezeji said, his voice tight. “Is it because you like to kill and you want to draw the Americans onto us?”

  The cries of the wounded had long ago passed into moans as one casualty after another died, leaving only those who would live and those so seriously wounded that they were unconscious, thereby stifling their screams. Why would the Americans fire on him? If the Americans saw how they dealt with Jihadists, they would embrace the ANA as one of their allies.

  “This is another attempt to kill Ojo—General Ojo, just as they tried two months ago in Cote D’Ivoire,” Kabaka finally answered. “If it hadn’t been for my men routing them and forcing them to flee in their helicopter, they would still be chasing us.”

  Ojo turned to the forward scout. “Did you leave anyone to watch the men in the parachutes?”

  “No, sir, General. The others continued to track the Arabs and sent me back to warn General Ojo.”

  “Go back and rejoin your group. Tell them to leave the men in the parachutes alone. If they become free and you discover them following you, then lose them.”

  The boy stood straight, his lower lip pushed against the upper. “If they follow, General, we can kill them. We are not afraid.”

  Ojo shook his head. “No, if they follow, then you are to avoid them. Don’t take them prisoner and don’t fight them. Those in the parachutes are professionals. They are what the Americans call Special Forces, but here they are on our ground and we know the jungles; they don’t, so we will avoid them until they tire and call for the helicopter to take them out.”

  “For this, my general,” Kabaka said, his voice soft, “you are wrong. Allow me to kill them. I will go with the boy and kill the Americans after we have questioned them. Allowing them to live only endangers ourselves and our soldiers. If these are allowed to leave, they will be back, and they will continue to return until they capture or kill you.”

  Ojo nodded. “You may be right, but if we kill them, then there will be no negotiating with the Americans. Leaving them alive, we may have a chance to show them our value to their prolonged war on terrorism, and then they will leave us alone.”

  Ezeji nodded. “That is sage wisdom, General Ojo. You may be right. Dead Americans do not encourage Americans to talk, but it does cause them to commit others to ensure that future Americans will not die. The American Special Forces are smart. They will be able to tell that we knew of their dilemma and didn’t take advantage of it. That is a point in our favor.”

  Kabaka sheaved the machete. “I am returning to my troops.” He pointed at Ojo and Ezeji. “In this you are wrong. Patience may not be cowardice, but it can lead to a wrong decision and, in this, you are wrong. Patience isn’t called for now. Decisive—” He made chopping motions with his hands. “—death is the answer. A dead person never argues with a live one, but a dead person sends his own message to those who sent him.”

  “Enough, General Kabaka. Thank you for your insight. Let’s hope you are wrong.”

  “In this, I am not,” Kabaka said, his voice shaking with anger. “You are endangering our army by allowing them to live.” He turned, motioned his men to follow, and marched back the way he had come.

  “He is dangerous,” Ezeji mumbled.

  “Yes, he is dangerous. I wonder sometimes if that is good or bad, but most times I believe that anger has its own place in combat, and a soldier can’t say whether that anger was good or bad until afterwards.”

  “By then it is too late,” Ezeji said.

  “By then it is too late,” Ojo agreed, nodding.

  Ojo turned to the young warrior. “You have your orders, soldier. Return to your unit and tell them of my decision.”

  KABAKA WAITED UNTIL THE JUNGLE GROWTH HID THEM from Ojo and Ezeji. He turned to one of his lieutenants. “We cannot allow our great leader to imperil himself at the advice of a Nigerian traitor. I want a squad of our young warriors to take the Americans. It matters little to me whether we take them alive or dead. If alive, then they are to hold them for me.” He laughed and patted the top of his khaki short pants. “I need a new belt.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ”ROCKY! YOU OKAY?” MACGAMMON SHOUTED, HIS VOICE shaking.

  Rockdale turned his head left, motion below him causing him to look down. There was MacGammon about twenty feet below swinging from the suspension lines of the tangled parachute.

  “I’m okay!” he shouted back. Rockdale ran his hands over his body, feeling through the aches of the landing, making sure nothing was broken. Where in the hell were they? Satisfied nothing was broken, he glanced around, assessing their situation. A huge tree limb jutted out directly below—he estimate
d three feet—running toward the group of limbs of the nearby tree where MacGammon’s parachute was entangled. Rockdale craned his head forward, but vegetation hid the ground. Be hell if they had to stay in the trees until rescue arrived because they couldn’t get down. Where are the others? He wondered. The EP-3E had twenty-four souls on board. He saw three of them drifting close together as they came down. The other person was Carson. You couldn’t mistake the Texan’s lanky frame for anyone else. But, where in the hell was Carson? Rockdale turned his head as far to each side as possible. The helmet hindered a clear view and obstructed peripheral vision. Rockdale knew Carson could be right behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see him until he removed his helmet. He looked down. He thought he could see the ground, if that patch of brown was the ground and not a bunch of dead leaves or limbs. Either way, it was too far down to unsnap and drop.

  “Hey, you see Stetson?” Rockdale shouted, using Carson’s nickname.

  “Hell, Rocky! I can barely see me. I’m surrounded by leaves. How far from the ground are we?”

  “Too far to drop.”

  MacGammon had been close enough for Rockdale to recognize as they descended. His descent was right behind MacGammon, and Carson had been slightly off to his right.

  “Rocky! What the hell are we going to do?”

  “I think,” he said, drawing out the reply. “We’ll wait here a while and see if we can contact anyone. Stetson has to be around here someplace.”

  “I didn’t see him when we came down.”

  “He was with us. I was behind you and he was to my right.”

  “I came through first. Did you see where he hit?”

  “I had my eyes shut.” A few second later MacGammon added. “I thought we were going to die. I didn’t see anyone else bail out. You don’t suppose?”

  “Blew up?” Rockdale shook his head. Aircraft on which you flew never blew up. They blew up on other people. “No!” he shouted. “No, I don’t think it blew up.”

  Rockdale released his grip on the suspension lines and let his harness hold him up. If the parachute was going to come loose and send him falling through the maze of intertwined limbs and vines, it would have already done so. He pulled his flight gloves off and jammed them in the large flight-suit pocket on his right leg. He’d need those later. He unsnapped the pouch on his survival vest, the SV-2, and pulled out the AN/PRC-90 survival beacon. They may call this small radio a survival beacon, but it was a dual-channel rescue transmitter with a two-way voice and Morse-code capability. Every aircrewman had one of these expensive radios in their survival vests. And none of them knew Morse code, though the Navy in its infinite wisdom had embossed the dots and dashes for Morse code on the side of the PRC-90. It was a joke with Rockdale and the others that by the time they could send a Morse message, they would have been rescued. By the time they found someone who could copy Morse code, they’d be retired and drawing Social Security.