“You know,” Van Lynden said thoughtfully, “you have to admire the man’s guts.”
“There’s more than that to admire about the man, Mr. Secretary. He’s turned out to be an extremely resourceful, intelligent, and dynamic leader. In only three years he has turned a total basket case of a nation into an ordered, stable, and growing society. In many ways, he is doing exactly what needs to be done in the region. He is suppressing corruption, he is seeing to the welfare of the majority of his population, and he is rebuilding the economic infrastructure of Liberia. Unfortunately, he is also a hard-core military dictator with a taste for conquest.”
The wall screen flicked on once more, this time displaying a large-scale map of Sierra Leone. “Around the first of this year, the government of Sierra Leone began to report a sudden mass exodus of refugees coming across their border with Liberia. This exodus eventually grew into a flood of over a quarter of a million human beings, deluging the border areas.
“The Liberian government claimed that they were disaffected individuals who had left a number of resettlement communities being developed near the border. The refugees said that they had been driven into Sierra Leone at bayonet point.”
“Where did these refugees all come from, Rich?” Van Lynden inquired, frowning. “I mean, from within Liberia.”
“No government is ever entirely popular with all of its citizens, Mr. President. The refugees are members of the Liberian tribal groups and political factions that did not support the Belewa takeover. When they began to organize a resistance against his regime, Belewa reacted with mass deportations from the rebellious sectors. Entire villages and urban neighborhoods were emptied. Men, women, and children, anyone even suspected of harboring anti-Union sympathies, were swept up into the DP camps and then pushed across the border, their goods and properties being given over to Union supporters.”
President Childress removed his glasses and thoughtfully began to polish the lenses. “He must have read Chairman Mao’s dictum that the guerrilla is a fish swimming in an ocean of peasants. Belewa’s countermove against revolution was to drain the ocean.”
“Much as Milosevic attempted in Kosovo back in ’99. But Belewa took things one step further. Not only did he end his internal dissension, but by releasing this human flood on the neighboring state least able to cope with it, he succeeded in weakening and disrupting that nation to an even greater extent.”
Van Lynden nodded. “Again turning a negative into a positive … to his way of thinking, at any rate.”
“That is Belewa’s style,” Dubois agreed. “Sierra Leone was totally unable to deal with this massive influx of refugees. They couldn’t even adequately feed and house their own population. Naturally the U.N. and the International Red Cross moved in, attempting to set up and supply refugee camps in the border regions. However, simultaneously with the arrival of the refugees, there was a sudden flare-up of guerrilla activity inside of Sierra Leone. A series of attacks were launched against transport facilities, food-distribution centers, and communications lines. Everything that was needed to deal with the refugee crisis was targeted, compounding the problem.”
“How convenient for certain parties,” Van Lynden commented dryly.
“Did these attacks originate from some group inside of Sierra Leone, or was this an outside insurgency?” the President asked, redonning his glasses.
“No conclusive evidence was ever collected either way. The Liberian government emphatically denied any involvement. However, these guerrillas definitely were not your average band of bush bandits. They were well trained, well equipped, and working to a definite plan of action. The relief program was paralyzed. Shortly thereafter, so was the entire nation of Sierra Leone. There was famine, mob attacks on the refugee camps, mass rioting. Sierra Leone’s already fragile government began to disintegrate.”
“And that’s when Belewa hit them openly, right when things were falling to pieces,” Van Lynden stated grimly.
“Exactly. Roughly a month ago, acting on the stated grounds that Liberian citizens were being endangered in the refugee camps and that the growing civil disorder in Sierra Leone was threatening to spill across their border, the Liberians invaded. The armed forces of Sierra Leone were totally overwhelmed. Freetown fell in a little over two weeks.”
President Childress shook his head. “The bold-faced son of a bitch. He creates a crisis just to give himself the opportunity to resolve it on his terms.”
“Negative to positive, sir,” Dubois replied. “And I believe that brings us up to today’s event.”
“Pretty much so, Rich.” The Secretary of State swiveled his chair to fully face the head of the table. “Mr. President. This morning, an official note was delivered to the State Department by the Liberian ambassador, stating his government’s intent to form a political confederation with the occupied state of Sierra Leone. As of seven A.M., Washington time, the individual states of Liberia and Sierra Leone ceased to exist. There is now only the West African Union, with its capital in Monrovia. Included in the note was a request from the Belewa regime for formal recognition of the new government, another request that we close our embassy in Freetown, and assurances that the West African Union desires only the best of relations with the United States.”
“Damn! Belewa isn’t wasting any time, is he?”
“He never does, Mr. President,” Dubois responded. “Not when it comes to organizing and solidifying his power base.”
The frown on President Childress’s face deepened. “I can state this for the book right now. This administration will recognize no territorial gains by any nation brought about by military aggression. Not on any grounds. Not under any justification. You can inform the Liberian ambassador of that point, Harry. You can also inform him that our embassy in Freetown stays open.”
Van Lynden nodded, giving a slight smile. “I thought you’d feel that way about it, sir.”
“That stated, what else can we do about this?”
Van Lynden and Dubois exchanged glances. “Speaking frankly, sir,” the Secretary of State replied, “not a whole hell of a lot. We’ve had an arms and tech embargo in place against the Belewa regime ever since he seized power in Liberia, and a further expansion of monetary or trade restrictions against Liber—excuse me, the West African Union—would likely hurt the general populace more than it would the government.”
“Is there any potential risk to American citizens inside of Union territory?”
“There is none apparent, Mr. President,” Dubois replied. “Belewa is very careful about protecting foreign nationals in country. He wants outside investment and development in his territory. He needs the jobs and the foreign exchange.”
“Harry, what about the U.N.?”
“We might be able to get a vote of censure against the Union in the United Nations, but I doubt much more,” Van Lynden answered. “If Belewa can energize the economy of Sierra Leone the way he has with the Liberian, there will be more money to be made out of trading with the Union than there was with the two states individually. Beyond that, not too many people are going to give all that much of a damn.”
“And the West African group, ECOWAS? Do we have any idea where they’re going to stand on this?”
Dubois shook his head. “You can expect very little, Mr. President. It was an ECOWAS peacekeeping operation that put Belewa into power in the first place. The recriminations from that have left the organization nearly prostrate. Hardly anyone is talking, nobody is trusting, and there is almost no chance of anyone organizing any kind of effective counter move.”
“It sounds like you both are saying we have to accept another fait accompli.”
Van Lynden lifted his hands. “Essentially sir, yes. I don’t like to see this kind of precedent set involving a flagrant armed aggression, but even I have to say that the United States has no strategic justification for
a unilateral involvement at this time. As part of a U.N. or multinational effort, that would be something else. But somebody else has got to take the first step.”
Across the table, the Assistant Secretary of State hesitated for a moment, then turned to face the President. “There is one thing we can do, sir,” Dubois said. “West Africa is literally on the bottom of the National Security Agency’s tasking list. I believe we need to focus additional intelligence-gathering assets on the region, especially on the West African Union. We need to keep an eye on Belewa, especially on where he’s headed next.”
“You think he’s going to keep going?”
“Yes sir, Mr. President, I do. The man is an empire builder. And if he continues to take ground at the rate he has been, very soon he will be a strategic concern to the United States.”
Dubois keyed the wall screen control pad again, restoring the regional map. “As you can see, Sierra Leone and Liberia, the states of the West African Union, are entirely surrounded on their landward side by two other nations, Guinea and Côte d’Ivoire. I believe that Belewa will take a year or two to stabilize his hold on Sierra Leone and then he will move against one of these two states. Probably Guinea, as it’s the weaker and less stable.”
“You sound like you think we might have an African Napoleon on our hands.”
“Possibly, Mr. President. Or an African Hitler.”
Kilimi, Near the Border of the
West African Union and Guinea 2210 Hours, Zone Time;
December 29, 2006
The unpaved jungle track was not made for fast driving. However, an expatriation convoy, a dozen aged and load-weary trucks and buses jammed to the limit with an unwilling human cargo, slowed the presidential command column even further. It was well after dark when the two groups of vehicles entered the perimeter of the Kilimi resettlement compound.
“Compound” was something of a misnomer. The word denotes an aspect of constructed permanence. There was nothing of permanence here. As with the other resettlement camps strung out along the Guinea border, Kilimi compound consisted of only thousands of lost and bewildered people huddled together in an area loosely defined by their patrolling guards. All that had been built were a few rude lean-tos and brush huts and a scattering of small, smoldering fires.
The previously dispossessed, some of whom had been waiting here in the forest for weeks, pressed closer to their fires, watching silently as the new arrivals were unloaded, wondering what new despairs the newcomers might be bringing with them.
Troops clustered around the refugee column, shouting, hurrying their charges out of the vehicles and herding them away into the night. One guard, impatient as an elderly man fumbled with his small bundle of possessions, lifted his rifle butt to strike.
The blow never landed. A strong hand closed on the rifle barrel and a low voice spoke out of the darkness. “Corporal. That is unnecessary.”
The corporal froze in place. He knew that voice; all who lived in the new West African Union did. “Yes, General. I am sorry.”
Premier General Obe Belewa released his grip on the rifle barrel. “Very good. In their way, these travelers are warriors of the Union, just as are you and I. They have a long, hard journey ahead of them. Let’s not make it any harder than it has to be.”
Brooding, Belewa walked on, his jungle boots scuffing the dust of the track, ignoring the cadre of guards and aides who followed at his heels. As he passed each small fire along the road, he made himself pause and study the faces revealed in the flickering light—the men, the women, the children, the old, the sick, the resigned, the angry. The people who resisted his new way and the people who supported them. He found himself wondering which among them would die.
After a time, he became aware of a hand resting on his shoulder.
“Obe, you should not do this to yourself.”
“I must, Sako,” he replied to Brigadier Atiba, now his chief of staff. “I must do this to remind myself how much I hate doing this.”
“For the ten thousandth time, Obe, you know that we have no choice if the Union is to be built into what it should be. We must remember that we are using our enemies against our enemies. We must be strong!”
“I know, my old friend.” The General straightened and squared his shoulders. “Tonight we begin the game again. We take a longer step for a greater prize.”
Flashlights bobbed along the road ahead and another group of Union soldiers approached Belewa’s party. Its leader snapped off a precise salute. “General, I apologize for not being present at your arrival. My border scouts are in, and I was receiving their report.”
“There is never a need to apologize for doing your duty, Colonel Sinclair,” Belewa replied. “What do your scouts report?”
“We have a clear border, sir. No Guinean army or police patrols noted. Given an hour to set out our guides and pickets, we can start moving the first DP parties. We can have the first wave across the line by first light.”
“And the supplies for them? They have arrived?”
“As ordered, General. Each displaced person will receive a ration of flour and rice and a blanket.”
“And our Special Forces teams?”
“The lead elements are preparing to move out as we speak, sir. The men would be honored if you would see them off.”
“The honor would be mine, Colonel. Relay the order to all displacement compounds. Commence Operation Deluge Two as per the action plan.”
The Special Forces camp was set away from the DP compound. It, too, consisted of little more than branch-and-leaf lean-tos and smoking fire rings. But here there was a sense of order instead of bewilderment, determination instead of despair. Outlined by the campfires, figures moved swiftly. Orders were called in the darkness, and once a soldier laughed at some unheard joke by a comrade.
“Patrol, attention!”
A cluster of men sprang up from where they rested at a fireside. Their field gear, secured and ready, made hardly any clatter as they came to their feet, hitting a hard brace.
“This will be the first team across the border, General,” Sinclair said.
Belewa walked down the short line of troopers, studying each one in turn by the firelight. This was better. Better by far than the ordeal of the DP camp. It always lightened his heart to get into the field with his soldiers once more, away from the grim necessities of politicking and statesmanship. He paused at the end man, who was the squad sergeant and a good representative of them all.
The soldier was of average height and lean, not with the gauntness of hunger but with the wiry sinuosity born of hard training. His eyes held none of the bloodshot muddiness of marijuana and his youthful face was confident and set.
The pattern and coloration of the camouflage he wore wasn’t quite correct for the West African bush environment. Not surprisingly so, since the uniform had been purchased military surplus from the Hungarian army. Likewise, his camo cap and bush knife had come from a cut-rate Canadian sporting-goods clearinghouse, while his sandals had been made in a local village from an old truck tire.
Slung over his shoulder was a Pakistani copy of a British Sterling submachine gun, while clipped to his cheap Thai military webbing were half a dozen spare 9mm magazines and a mismatched pair of hand grenades, one a massive Russian issue RD, the other a small, palm-size Dutch V40. A rolled jungle poncho and a small haversack containing a ration of rice and dried meat made up the rest of his kit. He wore no insignia or mark of rank. Nor did he carry any written word that might link him to the Union.
The Special Forces trooper was a patchwork warrior, painstakingly pieced together out of the discards and bargains of the world arms market. Second best in everything except dedication.
Belewa knew that it would be ludicrous to compare the equipment and training of his Special Operations units to that of the American Green Berets or the Br
itish SAS. However, he also knew that they would be decisively superior to any opponent they might meet across the line in Guinea.
“State your mission, Sergeant,” Belewa barked.
“We are to cross the border and destroy the Highway Bridge at Bambafouga with dynamite charges,” the team leader replied crisply. “Our secondary objective is to cut the telephone lines at Bambafouga crossing and to burn the standing crops ’round the outlying villages. Upon completing our mission, we are to return across the border for reassignment. We are to avoid contact with both the Guinean military and civilian population whenever possible, and we are to avoid causing unnecessary civilian casualties.”
Belewa nodded. “Good. And why are you doing this, warrior?”
“For the Union and the future!” The trooper broke his rigid posture then, looking full into Belewa’s face. “And we do it for you, General!”
Belewa smiled and shook his head. “No, my son,” he said, lightly slapping the younger man on the shoulder. “Only for the Union and the future. I am not important.”
The White House,
Washington, D.C. 1018 hours, Zone Time;
February 14, 2007
FROM: NATIONAL COMMAND AUTHORITY
To: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS
SUBJECT: UNITED NATIONS AFRICAN INTERDICTION FORCE
Commencing immediately, you will make all preparations required to deploy a U.S. Naval Task Group to the nation of Guinea as a possible element of the United Nations African Interdiction Force (UNAFIN) as per U.N. Resolution 26868. Said Task Group to number no more than 1800 personnel and to be suitably configured for coastal patrol and interdiction duty.
Benton B. Childress
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