Joint Task Force #4: Africa Page 25

  “Keep me informed on their progress, Chuck. I suspect we still haven’t managed to raise our lads?”

  “No, sir, but we’re calling constantly,” Peeters replied, his voice trailing off. “Not sure why they haven’t responded. We’re in the right spot where they bailed out, and between the four of them, they have four PRC-90s. We thought about dropping a CRT-3, but it wouldn’t do much good to give them a larger, more capable radio when we have no idea exactly where they are, so we’d only be throwing it away. We did drop the number-three life raft.”

  “Why’d you do that? There’s no ocean around here except this jungle canopy.”

  “We thought they could use the food and water rations stored in it, as well as the radio.”

  Crazy Harry chuckled. “What we’re going to find is the life raft in the top of one of these trees. Damn, best of intentions—”

  Pits stood up and put his hand on Chief Roberts’ shoulder. “You want to take a break?”

  “I want to know as soon as we make contact.”

  Peeters acknowledged the order and pulled his head out of the cockpit, allowing the curtains to close.

  “No, I’m okay, Pits. Besides, it’ll be full daylight soon and this is the part of flying I enjoy most.”

  “Dell, let’s take her down to treetop level.”

  “Roger, Skipper.”

  Pits grabbed ahold of the back of the flight engineer’s seat as the EP-3E tilted forward.

  “Ah, come on, Lieutenant! I said take her down, not drive around.”

  Pits put both hands on the back of the seat. In the next instant, the EP-3E’s angle of descent increased past 45 degrees, as Crazy Harry grabbed the yoke and pulled back on the throttle.

  “Set Condition Three,” Chief Roberts announced on the internal communications system.

  From the rear of the huge reconnaissance aircraft came the sound of things falling, metal carrying cases toppling over, and curses from the aircrew as coffee and liquids joined the mess.

  “Skipper,” Chief Roberts said, “You know it would be best if we gave warning to the crew before we did one of your maneuvers.”

  Pits shifted his feet slightly to get a better position. Crazy Harry’s face appeared in the reflection of the cockpit window.

  “What do you mean, Chief, one of my maneuvers? Our aircraft and our crews are always ready for the unexpected. Did you hear any complaints from back there?”

  “No, sir, no complaints, but it’ll take a while to clean up the aisle.”

  “Gripe, gripe, gripe. Lieutenant Evans, take a note to remind me to write to the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy about the caliber of chief petty officers we’re getting in the Navy today. Used to be, back in my time, a chief would never question a skipper’s actions. Nowadays, everyone has a hotline but a skipper.”

  The aircraft eased up on its descent. Pits glanced at the altimeter and saw the dial slowing as they passed eight thousand feet.

  “Chief, why don’t you— No, you, Senior Chief. Take a walk through my aircraft and tell me who wasn’t ready for us taking this bird down. You get their names and tell them their careers are shit.”

  Pits smiled. “Yes, sir, but you know something, Skipper. I’d be surprised if everyone wasn’t ready. They know to be ready for the unexpected when you’re the pilot.”

  “See, Chief Roberts! There’s a senior chief who knows his people.”

  “But I will walk through the back, sir, and see how everyone is doing.”

  “Good, and while you’re back there, bring me another cup of coffee.”

  The nose of the aircraft rose. The altimeter showed them at four thousand feet.

  “Passing four thousand, Skipper.”

  “Okay, Dell, we’re going to start circling here. Tell the navigator to mark this as Mark Zero. Then, we’re going to increase our circle by three to five miles every 360-degree circuit. If we haven’t heard from them by the time we’re thirty miles out, then we’ll start heading back toward Mark Zero.”

  Pits stepped out of the cockpit. All along the aisle, aircrewmen were shoving publications and loose items back into metal boxes. Several were wiping up spilled coffee. He saw no gaggle of people in any one area that would have been indicative of an injury, which was another sign of the skipper’s immortality. For two years, the man had been leading one of the two Navy reconnaissance squadrons and during that time, not one crash; not one death; and not one major injury had occurred. Pits also knew that the cloak of immortality would disappear in an instant if any of those three things ever did occur. It may be the information age, but sailors’ superstitions survived intact.

  Ahead of him, Lieutenant Commander Peeters approached. “The helo is an hour out,” he said to Pits as he eased past the senior chief and entered the cockpit.

  Won’t do much good if we don’t know where they are or what happened to them, he thought as he started down the aisle toward the head and the mess. Flying a reconnaissance aircraft was lot like a day at work. You had a makeshift cubicle where you did your work; the bathroom was down the aisle; and, both a lounge and place to have coffee rounded out the workplace.

  RAZI SLOWED FROM HIS RUN TO A WALK AS HE BLINKED rapidly, trying to get his sight back after so many limbs had whipped across his face. With his free hand, he wiped the debris away, spitting out the bits of vegetation. His breathing was rapid and deep. It had been dawn when he charged into the campfire, now morning light filtered through the jungle canopy.

  His brow rose up and down several times before his eyes stopped blurring and he could see again. He turned his head, searching the surrounding bush, spotting the telltale signs to his left that someone or something had bent the African bush back as it made a path. Razi started running again, chasing whoever or whatever was heading in that direction. He raised the AK-47, his finger still on the trigger. “No,” he said aloud, thinking to save however many bullets remained in the weapon. He laughed slightly. But when he spotted this last child warrior, he was going to blow the little man’s head off. A vision of a single bullet hole in the center of the boy’s forehead flashed across his thoughts.

  Another sound intruded over his breathing, and several seconds passed before Razi realized it was the sound of distant gunfire off to his right. He must be running full circle and it was his sailors defending themselves. Without pausing, Razi turned and started heading toward the gunfire, never thinking it might involve someone other that Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson.

  He was making a new path through the jungle growth, stepping aside heavier growth to crash through lighter barriers. Never stopping, though. His left foot sunk into a spot of marsh, bringing a sucking sound as he pulled it out, but he kept running. His lungs ached from the exertion, but Razi was in great shape. His body mass from years of lifting weights gave Razi the weight and stamina needed to move through obstacles that a jogger would only have bounced off. He was the Hulk. He was Tarzan. He was the entire U.S. Marine Corps, though he would never give them the joy of knowing it. No one and nothing could stop Chief Razi—he was invincible and he was clearing the jungle of those would kill him and his sailors.

  An entangled barrier of thorn-ridden bushes appeared in front of him. To his left, the barrier looked shorter and weaker. He turned and drove into the bushes, the sharp, thick thorns tearing the already torn flight suit and ripping though the top layer his skin wherever the thorns touched. His forward movement slowed, but his pile-driver legs pushed his body through entwined limbs and vines, drawing more thorns toward him from the surrounding bushes. The brush of a limb swiped across his brow. Razi continued forward, everything focused forward. Adrenaline racing through every muscle. Red clouded his left eye as drops of blood flowed from where thorns had slashed the skin across his brow. He wiped it away and kept moving.

  Steady gunfire came from ahead. If Razi’s thoughts had been completely rational, he would have realized the distant gunfire was more than just a few weapons, but many weapons blanketing the jungle soun
ds.

  Several steps later he burst through the thorn barrier into a small clearing. Standing ahead of him was a young man holding an AK-47. Razi turned slightly and like a bulldozer at full throttle plowed toward the African. Pain slammed against his head, and a blaze of white light filled his last moment of consciousness. His body took two— then three more steps before Razi collapsed onto the jungle floor. Above him stood several African men looking down at the madman who had emerged from the thorns. One of them turned his gun over, looked at the stock, and then slammed it down on Razi’s back—drawing a grunt from Razi. He then wiped the stock back and forth on Razi’s flight suit, cleaning the blood off it.

  THE SOLDIER RUNNING TOWARD GENERAL EZEJI CAUGHT Ojo’s attention. He watched for a moment as the soldier stopped, saluted, and said something to General Ezeji, before turning around and racing back toward the sound of gunfire. Ezeji nodded at Ojo and hurried forward toward him. “Our soldiers have stopped Abu Alhaul, sir.”

  As if prophetic, the sound of distant gunfire reached their ears. “I would say they have engaged them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, General Ojo. Seems we caught up with Abu Alhaul,” Ezeji replied, his smile revealing blackened back teeth. “By this time tomorrow, Africa will be rid of another scourge—a plague to its humanity.”

  Ojo turned toward the sound of gunfire. “General, have the men advance, but tell them to stop when we see the enemy. Our soldiers in front should keep them occupied and block any escape. It would be good if we can involve as many of our warriors as we can in slaying Abu Alhaul.”

  “I have already sent my lieutenants to tell my soldiers, and I have dispatched runners to both Kabaka and Darin.” He held his arms out as if wrapping them around a huge invisible barrel. “Like this we are. My right arm is General Kabaka’s trustworthy forces and my left arm is General Darwin’s forces. We are the center. We are advancing toward a line—a front opposite to our soldiers. When we reach the battle zone and connect with our soldiers on the other side, then we will have the foreigners surrounded. They can surrender—”

  “No!” Ojo snapped. “No surrender. No martyrs, no surrenders, no prisoners. Abu Alhaul will disappear into the jungle. Let those who worship his murderous ways believe him to have vanished from the face of the earth. The stories our soldiers will tell will be all that remains of Abu Alhaul.”

  He didn’t mean to startle Ezeji; neither did he mean to embarrass his number-one general. “What was the gunfire to our north that we heard earlier?”

  Ezeji shrugged. “I don’t know. I sent a squad to investigate and they haven’t returned.”

  The noise of the advancing soldiers of the African National Army tromping forward to the battle area, heading in the direction of gunfire, followed the dictum of modern combat to advance toward the sound of gunfire and turn the nose toward the smell of gunpowder. They couldn’t be far away from where his men had Abu Alhaul surrounded. The smell of battle overrode the jumbled odor of decaying matter wrapped around the fresh smell of jungle vegetation. Ahead was the first of many goals Ojo had set for his vision of freeing Africa from the West. To him, it mattered little if the opponent was white or black. It only mattered that it wasn’t African. This wasn’t a war against any political or religious entity; it was a national war full of pride in country, in people, and its history. The hardest war would come next. The defeat of Abu Alhaul was a carrot to dangle in front of those countries whose might could wipe him from the face of the earth as easily as he would swap a fly. As long as the carrot hypnotized them against his national movement, he could consolidate further his gains in West Africa. The arena where political might and guile were preeminent was a much harder battlefield than the one they were engaged upon now.

  The gunfire earlier from the north bothered him. Not the noise, but the fact that Kabaka’s forces were on that side, and so was the Americans.

  “General Ezeji, I would like you personally to check on the action to our north.”

  Ezeji nodded. “I understand, General. What if our loyal General Kabaka has taken the Americans? It would complicate—”

  “It would severely complicate our survivability. If he has them, take them from him.”

  Ezeji saluted. “I understand, sir,” and with those words the heavy Nigerian turned right and marched off, his retinue following.

  Ojo watched until the jungle wrapped the soldiers from sight before turning back to face the direction where the tempo of gunfire was increasing. His concern for the Americans was not for them, but for his vision. While his army grew daily with new recruits, it would only take a slight miscalculation to cause the anxious Americans, French, and Nigerians to take action against him. He was no fool. Even though he called those who followed him soldiers, and his group an army, they were but a ragtag collection of individuals when compared to the professionals who made up real armies. Finishing Abu Alhaul would appease the nation states long enough for him to obtain some legitimacy, and for that he would turn to the scholars among his followers. He was a warrior, not a statesman; and when fighting the battle for world opinion, a pen and a steady voice were the best weapons, not a gun.

  ”THE CHIEF AIN’T GONNA COME BACK,” MACGAMMON said, looking at his watch. “It’s been nearly forty-five minutes and the aircraft is still orbiting.”

  Rockdale nodded. “We’re going to have to find our survival vests.”

  MacGammon lifted a handkerchief and ran it across Carson’s head. “Maybe we should look for the chief’s. He wasn’t wearing his when he burst out of the bushes. Maybe he took it off so he could move faster.”

  Rockdale nodded. “Could be.” He stood and walked along the bushes. “I think he came in through here.”

  MacGammon joined him. “You stay here with Stetson. I’m shorter and smaller. I can probably work my way through this maze better than you.”

  “No, I’ll go,” Rockdale objected. He was the senior petty officer, and he was the one who made Sailor of the Year last year while MacGammon was having his ass hauled before the skipper for some infraction or other. And since they’d been here, it had been MacGammon who had made the decisions. All this went through Rockdale’s mind in seconds, recognizing MacGammon was truly the hero in this bailout.

  Rockdale was surprised when MacGammon said, “Okay. But, be careful. We haven’t heard the chief’s piece firing in some time.”

  “Watch Stetson. If I’m not back soon, you’re going to have to find some water or something for him. Like us, he’s sweating, and none of us have any water to replace what we’re losing.”

  Rockdale turned and pushed himself into the bushes where Chief Razi had appeared minutes before dawn. Seconds later, he wished he had listened to MacGammon—the other sailor was shorter and smaller, nearer the chief’s size.

  “Still no contact, Skipper,” Lieutenant Commander Peeters said. “The Air Force is orbiting just south of the Liberian border, but he’s only got about two hours of fuel remaining. If we don’t locate Razi and the others in the next hour, we’re going to have to release the helo.”

  Commander Greensburg grunted. “Damn it, why don’t they answer? We’ve been orbiting here since daylight. It’s been over an hour since we started the search.”

  Pits shut his eyes and leaned back against the bulkhead of the cockpit. He didn’t say what they were all beginning to believe, and that was that the four men were dead, captured, or worse, being tortured to death. Africans were no better known for their hospitality than the Jihadists. He took a deep breath. He should have been a better judge of character with regard to Razi, though deep down, Pits still wasn’t fully convinced the man even knew what he was doing until after he bailed out. He had met others like Razi during his career. Those who became so enamored with their own self-made image that they began to believe it—act it—do it until circumstances called for them to rise to the occasion such as Razi did, and they did it before they realized they never really intended to do it. His eyebrows bunched. He tried to recall that th
ought, trying to figure out what it meant, unless it meant he’d been wrong about others during his career.

  “Okay,” Greensburg said, drawing everyone’s attention. Several seconds passed before he continued. He glanced down at the fuel gauge. “We have fuel for another four hours. We aren’t going off-station until only enough fumes are left in the tank to take us on the glide path to Monrovia. Chuck, you call homeplate and see what the status is on Ranger 20. Then, you tell the other crew to get their butts to the flight line. If that airplane can fly, then I want it to relieve us on-station two hours from now.”

  “Sir, I’ll do that, but that aircraft lost an engine and—”

  “Then tell them to leave some of the aircrew behind and fly on three engines.”

  Pits eyes opened. “Sir, that’s against NATOPS. If they fly that aircraft—”

  “Senior Chief, NATOPS is fine for peacetime flying, but I—you—we have four fellow aircrew out there somewhere and until someone senior to me orders us out of the air, we’re going to fly. Chuck, you tell Lieutenant Gregory that if he thinks the aircraft is too dangerous to fly, then stay put, have a fuel truck standing by, and they can take this EP-3E backup.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peeters replied, dashing out of the cockpit and heading toward the radio position.

  Pits leaned forward. “Sir, you know this could cost you your job, if they fly that aircraft without a full maintenance inspection, engine replacement, and drop check.”

  Evans and Roberts looked at Greensburg, who didn’t acknowledge Pits’ words. Pits could see the man’s face reflected in the cockpit window, while the other two looked directly at it. Crazy Harry loved flying. He loved the aircraft and he loved his crew. Only now did they realize the priority of the immortal they followed.

  Something glistened in the windshield. Pits’ brow wrinkled at what he thought were tears running down Greensburg’s cheeks at the same time that the copilot and flight engineer looked away. He shook his head and thought, No way. This is an immortal and immortals don’t weep.