France jtf-3 Page 22

  The young man cleared his throat as he fell into step behind Ojo. “The telephone call?”

  “Yes, I know. The Americans are still coming,” he said, smiling slightly. Behind him, Darin’s mind would be racing trying to figure out how the general knew without him telling.

  “Yes, sir,” he said with a trace of awe. “They’re still coming.”

  “Maybe they’ll tire and turn back to their ship.”

  Ahead of them, someone tripped and fell, cursing the parentage of whatever he fell over. Soft laughter broke the steady noise of the army before a harsh command stifled it. The pace never stopped. They kept moving forward, one step after the other, one trip after the other, but always forward.

  “General,” Darin said, his voice only loud enough to ride over the background noise of the army. “With your permission, I can take some men and we will meet the Americans.”

  “Where would you meet them, Darin? They’re in a helicopter. As it is, they can land behind us, beside us, in front of us, or even in the middle of us. We won’t know until it’s too late.”

  “Then we should stop and wait for them. Kill them. Kill them all.”

  A log blocked the trail in front of them. Like the others in front, Ojo kicked the log a couple of times, then lifted a leg high and stepped over the long-ago-fallen tree. It was best to warn whatever waited on the other side — snake, wild hog — that something was coming over. Give it a chance to move before you stepped over and stepped on it. Then, it was too late for both of you.

  Ojo stopped for a moment as the young man leaped over the tree, then he turned and continued his march. “I don’t want to engage the Americans now, just as I don’t want to engage the French. We will focus on one enemy at a time, and the enemy is the one that is amongst us — Abu Alhaul. We’ll destroy the Islamic Jihadist’s strength, and from that we will push him and his religion away from West Africa, north to where it belongs, on the other side of the great Sahara. Then, we will confront the next threat to our independence.”

  Darin grunted as he tripped on a mess of vines, throwing his arms out and balancing himself on a nearby tree to stop from falling. “We can’t run—”

  “That is enough!” Ojo said, his anger riding the words. “The Americans won’t come too far into Cote d’Ivoire. They and the French aren’t the close friends they appear to the world to be. The Americans are paranoid about anything they fail to understand, and the French, as always, are just jealous of the Americans and barely understand themselves.”

  He recognized the huge shadow standing silently to the side of the path ahead. Once those legs began moving, no one could keep up with General Ezeji. When Ojo reached the huge man, Ezeji fell into step between him and Darin. “General Ojo, we have come about eight kilometers, I think.”

  “Eight? Maybe five or six; but, not eight, my friend.”

  “Yes, my General. My troops out front have found an open area where we can regroup. It’s about five or six kilometers from the French airfield. I don’t think we should go any closer.”

  The sound of a single gunshot caused Ojo to stop abruptly. The gunshot originated from ahead of them. He stood motionless with his head slowly turning as he assessed the surroundings. He became aware that the background noise created by hundreds of feet trying to move quietly through the brush had stopped, leaving only the faint noise of the night wind slightly shifting the dense canopy of leaves overhead.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tucker Raleigh squinted, his hand shielding his eyes from swirling debris as the helicopter, with lights off, lifted and quickly disappeared into the night. He squatted with the others until the noise faded and the jungle debris stirred up by the props settled slightly. He had intended to sprint to the jungle using the helicopter noise to mask their run, but discovered that if the others don’t know what you want to do, then it’s best to do nothing. This was definitely going to be the mission from hell.

  They couldn’t stay here long. Anyone around the area would have heard the helicopter and would be heading this way to investigate.

  “Okay, flip the 22 down,” Tucker said, referring to the monocle strapped to their helmets. The PVS-22 night vision device. The PVS-14 was the favored night vision device of Special Forces, but the newest generation of PVS-22s had longer battery life. Tucker flipped the monocle down from its strap around his head. He lifted his hat slightly so the brim wouldn’t cover the lens. The countryside burst into television clarity with everything a highlight of varying shades of green. The resolution of the next-generation device was so fine — so minute — Tucker could discern individual leaves on the nearby bushes. Individual stalks of grass were distinct. He reached out and touched one of the nearby stalks. Tucker nodded, thinking, The old depth-perception problem doesn’t seem to be there.

  The tops of the trees above the jungle curtain at the edge of the clearing swayed back and forth from the slight night winds. Most believed night vision technology changed darkness into light, creating landscape as it would look during daylight. Nothing could be further from the truth. Night vision devices accented faint light signatures coming from the heat of the objects themselves, or highlighted by faint starlight.

  Tucker watched as the others adjusted the single-lens device. He knew for the Seabees this would most likely be their first time with this type of SEAL technology. Brute pushed his lens up for a moment while the others adjusted theirs. The huge Seabee then pulled it down again. Tucker could see the man squinting the uncovered left eye closed.

  “Listen, team,” Tucker said, his voice intentionally low. “Keep both eyes open. The reason you only have one night vision lens is in the event we get into a firefight. You don’t want to lose vision in both eyes.” Tucker pointed briefly at the huge second class petty officer. “You okay?”

  “It’s like a gawldamn science fiction show!” Brute shouted.

  “What the hell are you shouting for? Keep it down. We’re all right here,” Tucker said, his head twisting side to side, searching the edge of the clearing.

  Master Chief Collins slapped Brute against the shoulder. “Don’t make the Commander tell you again.” Collins leaned toward Tucker. “Sir, I wouldn’t point at him. Brute’s got this thing where he believes he has to answer when someone points at him.”

  Tucker nodded, slightly confused about the “pointing” comment, but continued, “If we run into lights near the airfield, or we come under attack, flip that thing up as soon as you can. That way when you flip the PVS down again, your eye will be able to adjust to it immediately. Understand?”

  The three Seabees acknowledged Tucker’s directions.

  “Listen to me, now.” Tucker tapped the GPS reader on his wrist. “This is how we’re going to get in and get out safely.” The three looked at the small device strapped to each of their left wrists. “If we become separated, GPS is going to show you the way back.” He tapped the device. “Push the red button on the upper right-hand side.” He waited until they pushed the button. “You’ve just captured our current coordinates. If we become separated, hit the same button again and those coordinates will reappear. Then, press the button below it and hold it until you see a blinking arrow. That arrow will show you what direction to go to get back here.” Tucker pointed to the ground. Brute was squinting his left eye shut again. The Seabee’s head weaved back and forth as he stared at the GPS through his night vision device.

  “You’ll have to use your exposed eye — your left eye — if you’re using the night vision device. The GPS will glow in the dark so you can see the readout and the arrow.”

  Brute opened his left eye. His head stopped rocking.

  “You will also get compass bearings and ranges guiding you back to this place, so you’ll know what direction you’re traveling and how far you have to go. It’s only a matter of following it. Got it?”

  After the three acknowledged, Tucker stood looking at the group. He had intentionally omitted telling them how to use the device to move toward their targe
t. Why should I, he thought. If I’m killed or wounded, the mission is off. These makeshift SEALs the Navy has forced into harm’s way aren’t trained for this stuff. They build bridges, airfields, and barracks and do an outstanding job doing that. They’re even trained to defend against an attacking force until help arrives; but blowing up an aircraft in enemy territory is a bit outside their job description.

  “Hold your left arms out,” Tucker said. He held his out also, looking at their digital watches. The three had the same time as he. “We have to be back here by 0400 hours for pickup. We’ve got a little over three hours to do this mission.”

  He pressed another button on the GPS, got the readout he needed. He put his arm down. The others followed suit. They don’t even know how to move or what they should be doing. Without me, they’re toast. All they bring to this is warm bodies with weapons. Somewhere in Washington, some asshole is having dinner unaware of what he’s done.

  A dark swath wavered along the perimeter of the grassy area as if a gigantic impenetrable curtain marked the edges of the clearing. That swath was the edge of the jungle. To Tucker’s right, the top of the grass leaned in the same direction. It meant a trail or a small body of water such as a stream had bent the grass. He motioned them to follow.

  A few minutes later, they stepped onto a trail that stretched off to the west and continued onward east. It was a narrow trail, but even a narrow one was better than having to hack a new one out of years of old growth. Tucker glanced at the GPS readout. The trail headed off in the direction they needed to go. For the time being, they could use it. Tucker squatted for a moment, bracing his Carbine on the ground as he ran his hands along the trail bottom, looking for signs of shoes or feet. Several sets of small hoof prints pointed in the opposite direction. He figured they were from one of the several species of antelope that live in the Liberia and Ivory Coast border area. Satisfied, Tucker stood.

  “Ricard, you got the C4?”

  “The what?”

  “C4; explosives?”

  The man reached over his shoulder and patted his backpack twice. “Right in there. And, I’ve got the blasting caps to make it go boom in my front pocket.” Ricard patted his right pocket. His smile disappeared. He quickly patted his left vest pocket. The smile left his face. “Wait a minute.” He patted a pocket on his combat vest, then smiled. “Yep, they’re right here. You show me what you want blowed up, Commander, and I’ll make it so.”

  Tucker nodded. “Good.” He let out a deep breath. “Well, team, it’s truth or consequence time. With luck, we’ll be back in three hours. Our helicopter will be here, and by the time the sun burns the morning fog away, we’ll be eating breakfast on board the Mesa Verde.” He started west, walking along the animal trail that led off in the direction of their target. Tucker continued to hold the M-4 Carbine across his chest, his right hand resting near the trigger guard, ready to swing the automatic weapon around and have it firing in one smooth motion. While the trail made their trek easier, it also increased, however slimly, the opportunity for them to be ambushed. Combat may seem to slow time as adrenaline rushed through the body, but it didn’t change the speed of bullets.

  Tucker searched the sides of the path ahead as he moved, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Anything that shouldn’t be there. Then again, this was his first expedition into the West African jungles, and he doubted he had the full profile of what constituted ordinary and unordinary.

  The thought made him do a quick 360 over the top of the grasses, stretching his neck, searching for unexplained heat signatures from anyone who might have heard the helicopter. Anyone who had decided to investigate and had arrived. He continued walking, glancing down periodically to avoid tripping on coarse vines that crisscrossed the trail as they moved toward the west side of the clearing where the jungle began.

  Nothing — just faint movements of rustling leaves accompanying the humid night wind riding the heat currents along the edges of the jungle curtain. The wind carried the dank aroma of decaying humus from the jungle floor. He started to look down again when a quick movement behind them caught his attention. Several things moved rapidly through the top of the trees. His stomach fluttered for a moment until he reconciled the movement and figures as monkeys. He glanced down again, barely avoiding a vine that was a few inches off the trail floor. He wondered why the monkeys weren’t shrieking like they usually do. He quickly attributed it to the helicopter’s noisy landing and their presence, and kept moving, unaware the silence of the jungle was not entirely because of their presence.

  “Man, I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ricard said softly.

  “Shut your trap,” Master Chief Collins ordered from the rear where he had taken position. “You can have your bad feeling once we get back to camp.”

  Tucker sighed. I agree. I, too, have a bad feeling.

  They reached the edge of the clearing. Tucker held up his hand and motioned them down, nearer him. They crouched, Collins and Ricard’s heads a few inches from his. Tucker reached over, grabbed Brute’s shoulder, and pulled him closer, so their four heads nearly touched.

  “Okay, team, this is it,” he whispered. “No talking. No bullshitting. Don’t even pass gas—”

  “That be you, Brute.”

  “Can the shit, Ricard.”

  “Yes, sir, Master Chief.”

  Tucker sighed. We’re going to die.

  “You heard the Commander,” Master Chief Collins whispered, his voice hard. “You so much as cough, I’m going to wring your necks. Now cut the crap and listen to the man. He’s the only one who’s going to get us out of here.”

  Tucker saw Brute and Ricard nod. Good, he thought. They realize that’s true. I’m the only one with experience in this type of shit. Damn, why doesn’t that make me feel good?

  “Let’s go. Keep the man in front of you in sight. We’ll stop if we need to reorient ourselves.” He leaned forward to where his forehead nearly touched Brute and then did the same thing to Ricard. “We leave no one behind and we don’t take off running if we come under attack. Everything is done calmly.” He pointed at Ricard. “You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s good, because you don’t want someone putting a bullet in that pound of C4 on your back.”

  Tucker swung his finger toward Brute.

  “Don’t point—” Ricard warned.

  “You understand?” Tucker asked, his finger pointing at the huge petty officer.

  “Man, I’m scared shitless!” the giant shouted. Then he looked down for a moment and muttered quietly, “Sorry, sir.”

  Tucker jumped up, quickly scanned the area. His M-4 Carbine pointed up, his finger had moved to where he could flip off the safety and fire. He quickly squatted back down. “What the hell is this? You will get us all killed, if you don’t hold your—” Tucker said, his voice angry but low.

  “Commander, don’t point at him,” Ricard whispered, interrupting Tucker. The African-American’s head weaved back and forth. “Man, oh, man, Brute, you one dumb shit. You gotta stop that.”

  “I can’t help it,” Brute whined.

  “Can’t help what?” Tucker asked quietly, not looking down at the three.

  “It’s some sort of quirk, sir. It’s why I said, ‘Don’t point at him,’” Master Chief Collins added. He lightly backhanded Brute across the shoulder before looking at Tucker and tapping his own head. “It’s what keeps getting him in trouble. You point at him and whatever he’s thinking he’s gotta say it out loud. Only he don’t whisper it, he shouts it like some goddamn Marine.”

  Tucker shut his eyes for a moment and thought, Just when I didn’t think it could get worse.

  “Doctor says it’s because—”

  Master Chief Collins backhanded the giant’s shoulder again. “I don’t care what some shrink told you,” Collins whispered, harshly accenting each word. “I don’t want to get killed out here, in some God-forsaken jungle, because you can’t stop yourself from shouting out wha
tever you’re thinking when someone points at ya. You keep quiet or I’m going to sew those fucking lips together. When you get back, you can stand on a soapbox in the middle of that God-forsaken runway and shout to the world.”

  Tucker listened to the whispering as he searched the surrounding area, expecting any moment to detect movement heading toward them. We’ve made more noise in this mission, than I’ve encountered in a whole career of covert operations. Until Brute shouted, Tucker figured they’d manage to disappear into the jungle with some sort of confidence after they’d departed the clearing quietly.

  He looked at them, nearly raising his hand to point. “Enough. Let’s move in case someone heard that shout. Now listen to me. You follow me, you stay close, and for heaven’s sake don’t fire unless I do. And, if you have to fire, for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot one of us.”

  Tucker turned, pushed aside a tree limb, and forced his way through the heavy concentration of grasses that blocked entrance into the jungle. He was pleased that the animal trail continued when the limb, bushes, and vines closed behind them. The green night vision darkened slightly as they entered the canopy of thick jungle trees; but within minutes, his eyes adjusted to the new low light, allowing him to follow the trail. The humidity increased within the jungle. Along the edges of the trail, heat signatures of a variety of animals appeared as the four of them walked; most remained stationary as the men passed. A few darted away, drawing their attention, startling them before they recognized them through the night vision devices. The animals avoided Tucker and the Seabees as he led them eastward, periodically checking GPS to make sure they were still on course.

  The noise of their passage seemed louder to him than what a SEAL team would have made. The vines crisscrossing the trail grew in size the deeper they penetrated the heavy jungle. Tucker focused on each step, continuously searching the close-in surroundings. Here, in the thick of vegetation, any sign of an ambush or other humans would be seen in double-digit meters instead of a couple of hundred meters the open clearing had afforded. Thick bushes protruded over the trail like a low hanging canopy, forcing them to push limbs aside as they walked, and adding to the noise their passage was making.