Africa jtf-4 Read online

  “It is time, my friend.”

  Niewu nodded. “General Kabaka hasn’t sent his runner yet, General Ojo. If we start and send too many back to him, he may not have the men to execute them.”

  Ojo looked down at Niewu and thought, So, fear has already captured you, my friend. The man to whom I gave the power of the staff, and now you are willing to confront me for fear of Kabaka.

  Niewu saw the look and quickly said. “They have women back there that the men are enjoying. It is the one pleasure our soldiers have as we take your plan forward, General Ojo. If we send the rejections to them too soon, it would spoil their fun before they place the pistol against their heads and pull the trigger.”

  “Let’s start, Niewu, and we will do it slowly. Those back there will be soon gone.” The screams from behind the schoolhouse grew in pitch. “You understand who is the leader of this army?”

  Niewu nodded rapidly, his head going up and down. “Yes, General.” The old man rose quickly, barely using the staff this time.

  To change Africa meant starting with the children. The Islamic Jihadists understood that, and decades ago across the globe, they began to write on the blank chalkboards of youth the belief of killing oneself in furtherance of a religion earned great honor and immediate access to some fanatical version of heaven.

  Two soldiers brought the first boy in line forward. The boy’s legs kicked and kicked, trying to free the arms the two soldiers held. The two men jerked the boy upright, holding him so his feet couldn’t reach them nor touch the ground. The two men looked toward Ojo, saw him watching them, and immediately looked down at their feet. Respect was a good thing. Respect was best earned through hard work, fairness, and camaraderie. That took time. Another avenue to earn respect was through fear and strength of command. Kabaka had learned that well. Fear took less time, but required relentless and ruthless application.

  The soldiers continued walking up and down the line, whipping the children into place. Screams for them to “shut up” and “stand straight” had little effect, but the whips kept the line curling like a snake. The noise from their captives would never stop, but it was enough for Ojo that the wailing was more of a murmur now. Ojo knew the fear in each of these boys’ minds was like a parasite eating away at it. The screaming from behind the schoolhouse was feeding their fear to such an extent that it was stifling their own moans and wails. Ojo sighed. If they knew what Kabaka was doing, he would never harvest any future warriors from this meager line.

  The boys’ bare feet beat an uneven tattoo in the dirt of the village, drawing small puffs of red dust into the air. He may have a bath when this was over.

  The sergeant in charge of lining up the students walked to where the two held the first lad who was now kicking and screaming obscenities at them. Without a word, the huge man drew his hand back and with open palm slapped the side of the boy’s face, the sound of the slap was accompanied by a pistol shot from behind the school. The boy’s head snapped to the side, the head twisted back to the front and fell forward, the chin coming to rest on a heaving, thin chest.

  “Bring him here,” Ojo commanded, his bass voice riding over the background moans from their small captives. Small moist spots speckled beneath the feet of the boys as the line weaved back and forth, trying to avoid the two lines of soldiers narrowing a gauntlet to keep the boys in a single line.

  The sergeant motioned the two soldiers to Ojo. Holding the unconscious body by the armpits, they dragged the boy forward, his toes creating small furrows in the dust behind them.

  They respectfully nodded to Ojo when they stopped in front of him. They held the boy by the armpits, the lad’s small chin lolling back and forth against the chest. Ojo leaned forward, careful not to drop his AK-47, and grabbed a handful of hair, pulling the boy’s head up. Only white showed in the eyes, the pupils having slipped back under the top eyelids. Spittle ran from the boy’s mouth, mixed with blood from where the sergeant’s slap had broken the skin. The upper lip was already swelling. Ojo nodded toward Niewu. He released the boy’s head, the chin bounced off the thin chest. “Bring the stick,” he said to the sergeant.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the spot in the jungle where the African boy had escaped. Others had probably slipped into the jungles when the battle started, but he allowed it as this kept his name and his army’s fame growing across Africa.

  Many new recruits had spoken of rumors and the pride Africans felt to have an African army achieving victories against the outsiders.

  The sergeant standing before him was Nigerian. Nearly the same height as Ojo, his broad shoulders dovetailed to a muscular waist. He wore a sleeveless khaki shirt that lacked buttons. Old scars decorated the man’s hands and arms, revealing a lifetime of hard, menial work — day in and day out. A couple of times, in battle, the performance of this sergeant made him think that the man had had military training before Ojo selected him as an enforcer. The Nigerian was a man of few words.

  “Niewu!” the sergeant shouted.

  The two soldiers turned to where Niewu stood, the staff anchored in the red dirt. The stick was bare of limbs, about three inches in diameter. It had a natural curve along its length, and where limbs had once grown from it, dark rings of age had sealed the spots. Ojo knew the staff was slightly over a meter long because he personally measured it. A meter was a little over three feet. A child captive in a religious school must be shorter than the staff. A child of that height he was considered malleable — capable of being retrained and recovered from religious lies, the worse of which were those that taught you that taking death through your own was God’s way — Allah’s way to enter paradise. There is no paradise but Africa.

  His Pan African would remove whatever the mullahs had taught; remove the lies implanted into the fertile minds of African boys. He didn’t care for Christianity either, but the Christians weren’t teaching their students that salvation lay by blowing yourself up along with everyone else who happened to be around you at the time.

  “Hold the staff,” Ojo said.

  At arm’s length, Niewu placed the broad end of the stick on the ground, holding the slightly narrower end by his right hand.

  “Measure him,” Ojo commanded, pointing at the unconscious boy.

  The two soldiers dragged the boy the couple of feet to the stick and lifted him as straight as possible. The boy’s toes touched the ground.

  “No, his feet must touch the ground. The heels and toes must be level,” Niewu said.

  “Aiwa,” they said together, saying “yes” in Arabic.

  Ojo grimaced over the foreign language. Having an army composed of hundreds who spoke dozens of dialects and languages made necessary the use of Arabic, French, and English as the common languages. If he could, he would have mandated English as the common language for the army, but that would have isolated hundreds. No, for the time being, until he achieved his goal of ridding Africa of foreign influence, they would use the three languages.

  The two soldiers lowered the lad slowly until the small feet touched the ground. The boy’s feet turned on their sides. They lifted him slightly so the feet were flat.

  Ojo’s eyes narrowed as he compared where the top of the stick ended near the top of the boy’s right ear. The stick had been his idea. He had seen it used on carnival rides in Lagos where the operator only allowed lads taller than the stick to ride the machine. Ojo had learned from the experience, for he was one of those old enough to ride. Those too short were also too young, and while they complained, their whines were corrected by adults. The lesson he took away was that when you were taller than the stick, you had reached an age where you were entombed with the ways of those who raised you. Entombed with beliefs, good or bad, that defined you as a person and to change those beliefs was hard; too hard; harder than an army on the march could afford.

  He blinked. The stick hadn’t grown and the boy hadn’t shrunk. It still ended at the boy’s ears.

  “What do you think, Niewu? You are the keeper
of the stick.”

  He saw the slight twinge on Niewu’s face. The man preferred to call the “stick” a staff. Niewu leaned forward, holding the staff steady with his hand. He shuffled forward a couple of steps, never moving the staff. Ojo heard the familiar throat noises Niewu made as the man judged the height of the boy. Niewu was very serious in his job. After several seconds, the rich chocolate-dark African straightened and bowed toward Ojo. “General, I regret that another African student of Wahabi has exceeded the height of the staff.”

  The staff had become almost a religious icon in the army. It walked alongside Ojo when the army marched. Niewu wielded it as if it were a weapon. It afforded Niewu a status equal to a shaman. When Niewu entered or approached, soldiers cleared a path for him and his staff.

  Ojo nodded. “I think you’re right. It’s sad, for the lad looks taller than his age.” He started to say more, but three rapid pistol shots interrupted. Another piercing scream stilled the noise for a moment. Kabaka had jerked free another length of skin for his belt.

  The line alternated back and forth in a slow swing as the captives weaved. The soldiers eased the whips, their arms growing tired from the exertion. They walked up and down the line, touching the young boys, leaning down and whispering things to scare their captives, murmuring orders mixed with promises. Saying things such as how they were going to cook them, or how the boys were going to be used like girls or castrated and forced to eat their own balls. Some of the boys were so young, they had no idea what the soldiers were talking about. Some of the captives stared at Ojo, their stares alternating between him and the unconscious boy.

  Ojo looked at the sergeant. “You know what must be done.”

  “Yes, Master,” Elimu said. He nodded at the two soldiers and motioned them toward the back of the schoolhouse where the executions continued.

  “No,” Ojo corrected. He pointed at the line. “They must see, so they understand the power of your stick. So those we allow to live understand that there is no way back to where they’ve been. Do it over there, where everyone can see, and use the sword.”

  The sergeant touched the huge sword he wore tied to his waist. “Yes, master,” he said. He pointed near the spot where the two soldiers had tried to catch the young boy who escaped. Ojo knew the sergeant blamed himself for the escape. This was an opportunity for the soldier to redeem himself. I like him using the word “master,” he thought.

  Ojo watched for a few moments. Then he turned his attention to the captives. “Sergeant, tell the soldiers to keep quiet and force the boys to watch what happens when you’re taller than the stick.” Yes, you can’t ride the ride when you’re taller than the stick, he thought.

  The sergeant did as ordered. A pall of momentary quietness vanished as a new series of gunshots and another scream from the boy being made into a belt filled the village center. Another scream joined the boy’s. That was female, Ojo thought to himself.

  The sergeant motioned for the soldiers to stop. He looked at Ojo and waited for the command. One of the soldiers held the boy with both of his arms pinned behind his back. The boy rolled his head slowly, moaning, shock overcoming any attempt to escape. The other soldier emerged from a nearby hut with a small table. He set the table in front of the boy. The other soldier threw the boy chest first onto the rough wooden table, drawing a small cry from the captive as the wood dug into his naked chest.

  The sergeant pulled the boy’s arms tight behind his back, and another soldier grabbed a handful of hair and pulled hard, drawing the head back, exposing a slender neck, tendons sticking out visibly.

  Ojo held his hand up, waiting for the captives to focus on the scene. When he believed their attention was on the sergeant and their fellow student, he dropped his hand. Ojo braced himself. Not for what was about to happen to the boy, but the ear splitting wails that would burst forth from the other captives.

  The broadsword cut through the summer air and dust, slicing cleanly through the boy’s neck, leaving the severed head swinging back and forth in the soldier’s hand. The soldier danced lightly back and forth, trying to avoid the blood pouring from the head and from the neck. The eyes in the head looked rapidly right to left, so fast they were a blur. The sergeant immediately released the hands. The boy’s body shuddered several times before it went limp and tumbled off the table. The soldier set the head on the boy’s chest, facing the line. The sergeant placed the sword, blade flat on the tattered short pants of the dead boy and drew it back, wiping the blood off one side of the sword. Looking at the boys, he smiled at them as he wiped the blood from the other side of the sword before slipping it back into its leather sheath.

  The next few in line were shorter than the staff. They were taken to the other side of the village center where they were corralled in the wooden stockade used for cattle. The cattle had been slaughtered earlier, and in a nearby field his soldiers were cooking the meat for their dinner. His soldiers will be very hungry after such a hard day.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Rockdale, you asshole. You think that parachute is going to work with those loose straps hanging between your legs?” Chief “Badass” Razi said, reaching forward and grabbing Petty Officer Second Class Rockdale by the right shoulder, startling the young sailor. His other huge hand jerked the two straps dangling between Rockdale’s legs, causing the slender petty officer to reach forward and cover his crotch.

  “You feel that, boy,” Razi said, his Georgia accent rolling the words out like a languid stream. He pushed the sailor away and immediately jerked him back. “You feel that between your legs, Rockdale?” He laughed. “Yeah, you better cover those nuts because…” He let go and pointed up. “The moment that canopy snaps open it’s gonna jerk those straps tight to stop your headlong rush toward mother earth. And, those two straps you haven’t tightened between your legs are going flatten those balls of yours like pancakes.” He held up two fingers about a quarter-inch apart. “Thin pancakes aren’t as much fun to play with, but you’ll have a hell of conversation topic as to why you make a slapping sound whenever you walk.”

  The young dark-haired sailor reached down and pulled the straps tight, his eyes never leaving Razi. “Sorry, Chief.”

  Razi took a deep breath as he watched the sailor tighten the straps. He reached up and rubbed his chin, cocking his left eye at the sailor as he watched. Rockdale finished and straightened up. Razi let his eyes roam over the young aviation technician for a few seconds before he said, “Good, Rockdale. You pay attention to the little things, big things like having children will take care of themselves. Now, go take the thing off and store it properly. Don’t forget to let the straps back out. You’ll need them loose to put it on.”

  Razi watched for a moment as Rockdale walked around him toward the rear of the aircraft. Rockdale was going to make a fine chief petty officer if he keeps improving like he is doing. By the time the petty officer is a first class, he’ll be a crew chief on one of the mission crews.

  Razi drew his attention to the rest of the crew, all of them in various stages of putting on their parachutes. Bailout training was important for an aircrew to know and understand. Just as you fight like you train, you respond to emergencies just like you train, and as the chief petty officer responsible for conducting these drills, Razi had no intention of letting the officers think he didn’t take it seriously. He glanced around the fuselage of the EP-3E Aries II reconnaissance aircraft, focusing on the more junior aircrewmen. Some were fumbling in the aisle with their parachutes, tightening straps, helping each other by pushing the parachutes higher on their buddy’s back, and most were making sure the lanyard and survival vest were clear of the straps. All the best parachute packing and tightening of straps were useless if you couldn’t pull that lanyard, plus what little bit of survival stuff you have in that vest. Those straps can puncture the small plastic bottle of water or rip open the energy bars, exposing them to the environment. He started moving toward the front of the aircraft, stopping at each crewmember to check their
rigging. Once he was sure everything was right, he’d say, “Looks good,” and then instruct them to take it off and store it properly.

  Every flight, Razi ran the flight crew through the bailout drill. That was his job on each mission. He glanced up as he moved, frowning when he noticed Lieutenant Commander Peeters wasn’t watching. This was important, and it was something he did well.

  Others had the fire drills and ditching drills, but right after becoming airborne, he always had a bailout drill. Wasn’t required for every mission, but with this young crew deployed from Rota, Spain, he wanted to make sure they knew what to do in an emergency. And he wanted to make sure that those who provided input to his performance evaluations were aware how professional he was.

  He pushed his way down the fuselage toward the cockpit, checking each and every one of the crew, including the officers. No one had ever bailed out of an EP-3E. Urban legend had it that the antennas stretching from top of the four-engine turboprop would slice you in half as you jumped out the lone entry hatch to the aircraft, but NATOPS — the acronym for Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization — said you could do it. Therefore, someone somewhere must have tried it. EP-3Es had been around longer than computers, so someone had to have actually bailed out and lived for them to put it in NATOPS. Chief Razi may question others, but if the “ by-God” United States Navy put it in writing, then “by-God” it had to be true.

  Even so, Chief Razi doubted they would ever bail out unless the aircraft was on fire, pieces were falling off of it, and it was nose-down heading toward the ground. He had these “Walter Mitty” moments where he fantasized how he saved fellow shipmates from a burning aircraft, receiving a hero’s recognition and fawning attention. He stopped in front of a sailor who was already in the middle of taking off his parachute. The man’s helmet was already off, laying on its top along one of the narrow operating shelves. It tittered back and forth to the vibration of the aircraft.