Holman pulled out the metal stool stored against the bulkhead of the bridge wing railing, and sat down. Leaning against the railing he raised his binoculars and began the routine he so enjoyed, watching the other ships and seeing what they were doing. You could tell an awful lot by watching the sailors topside on a ship.
THE SIX OFFICERS AND SAILORS MANNING THE BRIDGE EXCHANGED looks, raised their eyebrows, and shrugged at each other. This Admiral Holman was a different breed from most admirals they had embarked with on other deployments. They liked him, but they would like him even more if he would stay off the bridge. Senior officers made bridge watches nervous.
“Okay, troops, let’s get our attention back on sailing this ship of the line,” the Officer of the Deck said as he raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon ahead of them. He wondered what the admiral saw in those binoculars that always seemed glued to his eyes.
BEHIND THE AMPHIBIOUS CARRIER BATTLE GROUP, THE periscope slid beneath the waves. The submarine skipper was nervous. He would have preferred maintaining eight knots, but this American fleet was keeping a steady fourteen knots. Fourteen knots made passive sonar inoperable. Of course, on the opposite side of the coin, the two antisubmarine warships with the Americans would be experiencing the same problem with their passive sonars. So, here he trailed the Americans, reporting to his Navy’s headquarters, while he had little capability to discover if American submarines had joined this task force heading toward Liberia. The idea of an American submarine caused a mental itch up his spine.
He doubted the two American destroyers would discover his presence as long as he kept the propellers shielded by the long black hull of this modern nuclear submarine. He had purposely slowed twice today to obtain passive signatures against the task force, and after both slowdowns he had had to increase speed past fourteen knots to regain position. Each time, he ran the risk of cavitation from the propellers and increasing opportunities for some sharp sonar operator aboard an American destroyer to pick up his signature. His orders were to maintain covert presence and avoid detection. He had no illusions about his orders in the event he was detected. He would do what the sealed orders said, regardless of how much it grated on his submariner sense of survival to do it.
He turned to the Chief of the Boat and ordered the submarine to one-hundred-meters depth. The warm seas kept the sound layer of cooler water lower, giving him safety of depth without losing the sound signatures of the American warships’ propellers. Behind him, crammed across a small lighted table, a holograph projection of the contacts showed the location of the American warships along with his own.
His executive officer asked if he wanted to load the forward torpedoes. Why would he want to do that? he asked incredulously. The Americans were, after all, still allies. The reply of his executive officer was that if the Americans were such close allies, then why in the hell were they tailing them? He sighed loud enough to capture the attention of those in the conning tower, and rather than argue with his hotheaded executive officer, nodded sharply and went to his cabin. He needed some sleep. This new strategy of his government—top secret, according to his orders—to conduct patrols along the American East Coast bothered him. He had friends in the American Navy. He had even graduated from the Industrial College of the Armed Forces at Fort McNair, Washington, D.C., and when in port he exchanged e-mails with his former classmates. No, he didn’t like this mission at all, but orders were orders and as long as they weren’t illegal, he would execute them. But what if he was ordered to load the torpedoes? What if—? No, he wasn’t going to think about it. He was going to skip dinner and take a short nap. Let the others sip the wine tonight. He knew how the Americans would react if the government in his country did something dumb under the guise of nationalism. Could the socialist government be so shortsighted they would fail to understand where Americans drew their line in the sand?
He reached over, lifted the photograph from the small side table, and looked at his wife and two children. The professional submariner glanced at the clock above the curtain leading to his small stateroom. Right now, Yvonne would be dropping Michel off at school. Louis, his older son, would probably still be in bed. The boy must get a job. If he wasn’t going to university, then he could work. He returned the photograph to the table, threw his arm across his eyes, and in moments was in a light sleep.
CHAPTER 5
“LOOKS AS IF THEY ACCEPT WHAT I TOLD THEM,” RETIRED Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston said.
Retired Sergeant Major Craig Gentle propped his foot on the banister that circled the community center. “General, it ain’t as if they’ve much choice. Some are probably still in a daze from that truckload of bodies.”
“Damn, Craig. You make it seem we had a tractor trailer pull up with a couple of hundred dead.”
“For them, it might as well been a couple of hundred. Every one of those young men were either kin or known to everyone in this town.”
“I know. It’s hard to put things in perspective when you’re fighting for your families. But we don’t have time to mourn. We have to get ready to move out.”
“We only have a few militia to protect the convoy as we move toward the border with Ivory Coast.”
“That’s true, but we have a few veterans. Shove a piece in their hands, and knowledge on how to use it will come flooding back.”
Gentle nodded. “They’ll also have a better idea of what we’re facing than the civilians.”
“Yes, but they’re facing it with their families.”
A vintage station wagon, trailing a cloud of dust, pulled in line behind the other vehicles parked along the side of the main street of Kingsville. The back was crammed with household effects and three—could be four, thought Thomaston—young children scrambling around the backseat. Strapped precariously on top were boxes and suitcases.
He pointed at the car. “Won’t make it five miles before they fall off. Don’t they realize this isn’t a picnic we’re going on? This is a quick run to the border. Most of their belongings are going to have to be left behind,” he said tautly. “It’s déjà vu. Like the old settlers heading west on wagon trains and having to dump stuff like pianos and dressers along the way.”
“I remember a television show about it.” Gentle brought his foot down, walked to where Thomaston stood near the stairs. “Seems to me, when the trail-master told them to get rid of the stuff, they often nearly mutinied.” He shrugged. “Can’t see any harm in letting them try, General. It isn’t as if it’s a long way to the border. A couple of days and we’ll be in Abidjan,” he said, referring to the major coastal city in the Ivory Coast. “If we need the space, we can always break the bad news then.”
Thomaston shook his head. “Can’t take the chance, Craig. All we need is to find ourselves stopping every few minutes to tighten down or lighten loads. When we leave here, we need to move and we need to move fast. We’ll be at our most vulnerable while we’re strung out in a long convoy.”
Gentle pointed to the armory on the other side of town near the edge of the lake. Almost a mirror-image location to the community center. “At least they’re drawing their weapons from the arsenal.”
Thomaston looked at the man who had followed him from duty stations to battlefields and into retirement. “Yes, they are, aren’t they. Wonder if they realize why we had the good fortune to have those weapons in the first place, or even who provided them and where we got them.”
Gentle put his hands on his hips. “It don’t matter, General. It isn’t as if anyone has had time to sit and ponder the questions this could have raised. Maybe later, when we’re sitting around one of those open-air cafes in Abidjan sipping beer and wine. What counts is you got us the money to fund this venture and they even provided weapons. Next time when they offer us arms, ask for mortars and claymores. We have small arms, a couple more SAMs, and a couple of heavy machine guns even if they are Army castoffs. We should have ample firepower to keep us alive until we reach the border.” He raised his han
d and swept the scene in front of them. “I’m going to miss this. We’ve done so much in two years, and fallen in love with our little piece of Africa.” He sighed. “It’s going to be hard to come back and start over.”
“That’s true, Craig. But we can’t start over if we stay here and die. It’s not like our fellow townsmen are former 82nd Airborne. Not like they’ve even had the training your basic grunt soldier gets, which would be welcome right now.”
“Wouldn’t take it too hard, General. We do have a bunch of veterans with us. Former soldiers, Marines, airmen, and sailors scattered out there. And we are using the soldiers and Marines like trained platoon sergeants and company commanders. The airmen have some weapons training. As for the sailors—”
“Well, if we reach the sea, then we can use the sailors.”
Gentle laughed. “Meanwhile, sir”—he bowed slightly and motioned down the stairs with his hand—“would the general like to inspect this army from hell before we move out?”
Thomaston nodded. “Okay, Sergeant Major, let’s go build some morale and spirit in our people. Let’s give them kick-ass-speech number one, and hope it gives them the attitude they’re going to need for the next couple of days.”
Thomaston started down the stairs. Retired Sergeant Major Craig Gentle moved left and fell in step, slightly behind the former three-star Army general.
Hands waved as they walked toward the line of vehicles. Thomaston estimated about twenty cars and trucks waiting. The sound of a straining engine caught his attention. From behind the module schoolhouses near the edge of the jungle that bordered the enclave to the south, two yellow buses emerged. They’d come in handy, if their guzzling diesel engines lasted to the Ivory Coast. The buses had been a gift of the NAACP, but since all the students walked to school, the buses had been primarily used to provide shopping trips to Monrovia and the odd school field trip. If they had sufficient room in the cars and trucks, maybe they could put personal belongings in the buses.
The woman from the station wagon saw him. “We heard the United States Navy is coming,” the woman said as she walked toward the two men.
He reached out, took her hand in both of his, and squeezed it slightly before dropping it. “I have talked with Admiral Holman”—who he had never met, but general and flag officers always assumed they knew each other, especially in front of subordinates and in crisis situations—“who is leading a three-carrier battle group loaded with Marines.”
Others heard the answer and smiled. They nodded approvingly to each other. A few of the men exchanged high fives. “Whoop-ass day is coming,” one of them said. “Woo-wee!”
It wasn’t new information, but just hearing it again helped ease concern. The information flowed like a wave washing up against a smooth beach as those who heard turned to those behind to pass along this old, but always welcome, tidbit of news. What he didn’t tell her was that it would be another two—maybe three—days before this Naval force arrived.
“But we have to control our own destiny. Right?” he shouted.
A chorus of cheers broke out around him.
“I know these homes. This land,” he said, throwing both arms up as if to embrace Kingsville, “is land we tore from the jungle of our forefathers. Land we’ve built homes upon. Land to which we have returned with the knowledge and the spirit of America to build a new place in an old world. A place to find our ancestors and a place to raise our children. A place where we have our pride in being Americans and in being children of Africa.”
A new chorus of cheers broke out. Men slapped each other on the back, women hugged each other and their husbands while pulling their small children closer.
“Let’s kick their ass, General!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. Another round of cheers erupted.
“Joshua, you hush yore mouth,” the man’s wife said. She shifted the small child on her hip to a better position and slapped him on the shoulder. “What you gonna do is get us out of here.”
Looked as if he didn’t have to give too much encouragement. Thomaston pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. In Africa, the heat arrived in waves as the sun rose, by mid-morning burning away the night smells of the jungle. Around one in the afternoon, it peaked and you could cut the humidity with a knife. Moisture filled the air during this early furnace half of a normal African summer day. Heavy afternoon rains arrived with little notice, splattering the soil, soaking the thick vegetation, and dissipating the dust from the air for a couple of hours.
He raised his hands in the air, the handkerchief flowing like a white flag in his right hand. Craig Gentle reached up and took the handkerchief from the hand. Thomaston motioned them all to be quiet, and after several seconds the cheering faded, the conversation tapered off, and movement ceased.
“I agree with what you’re saying. If there were just us men and women here who had the training to fight, I would say to hell with those heathens heading this way. I would say, we stay.” He balled his fist and shook it. “We fight. We kill. And when we finish, no one else—nothing would ever move us again. We would be the Israelites in the middle of Gideon.” He paused for a moment, and wondered briefly if Gideon was the right place or word. Religion was something Thomaston was less than overtly enamored with.
Agreements and amens punctuated his sentences.
“But we can’t. I don’t know how many are out there. Wish I did. What we do know is that there are enough of them that they were able to overthrow the government. They were able to chase the Liberian Army—”
“Bunch of cowards, if you ask me,” said a man from the middle of the crowd, drawing a chorus of agreements.
Thomaston nodded. “Could be, but for whatever reason, the Liberian Army is gone. Vanished. They’ve faded into the jungles and rain forests or joined the terrorists. We can’t expect any help from them.” He reached over, retrieved the handkerchief from Gentle, and shoved it in his back pocket. He wanted to wipe the fresh sweat from his brow, but every action and word would be interpreted by those watching. Leadership was more than words. It was confidence, action, and decision. It was standing tall in the face of danger.
“What we’re doing is just what I said we should in church earlier. We’re going to leave Kingsville.” Angry mutterings and a few vocal objections erupted; thankfully, not at him, but at the rebels who were approaching. Rebels, terrorists, regardless of what you called them, the approaching force was hell-bent on killing Americans. “I know how you feel. I don’t want to go any more than you do, but we can always rebuild this brick-and-mortar town. We can’t bring back our sons and daughters; our wives and husbands; our friends. So we leave, but we’ll return, and when we do, we’re going to stay and no one, nobody, no nation, no terrorists or rebels are going to drive us away again.”
Cheers burst forth again. He had the crowd. There were a couple toward the back who didn’t cheer or clap. The people trusted him more than he trusted his own self. Slightly to the left and behind him, Sergeant Major Craig Gentle rendered the retired lieutenant general a salute. Gentle turned to the crowd and raised his fist. “Three hoorays for the general!”
“Hip-hip hooray!” Gentle shouted three times, and by the third, the entire crowd was screaming at the top of their voices.
Thomaston waved and mumbled thanks, wondering if this little show would provide the confidence needed for the next couple of days.
When the noise of the impromptu rally faded, Thomaston stepped forward and in a loud voice said, “Now, we hurry. Take only the things you truly need.” He glanced at the sky. “We’ll leave as soon as those sent to our embassy in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, return.” He glanced at his watch.
HE AND GENTLE STOOD ALONG THE ROAD, WATCHING THE crowd continue loading the cars. Not one person removed any of the items crammed into them.
“Great speech,” Gentle said. “Good to see how you have so moved them they are throwing away personal stuff and lightening the load.”
“If I had be
en any more effective, they’d be putting more on top of those vehicles,” Thomaston replied in the same soft voice.
Several men and women walked over and shook Thomaston’s hand. So much confidence in him. He hoped it wasn’t misplaced. He knew what most of them could never know, and that was regardless of how well you planned, when the first bullet was fired, everything went to shit in a handbasket. Fog of war, they call it, but when you’re rolling in the dirt, scrambling through the brush, and returning fire, fog is the last thing on your mind.
“Here comes one of the patrols,” Gentle said, pointing north.
Thomaston looked. Dust rose from behind a white SUV speeding down the road leading toward the small town.
Shouts of “General, General” drew his attention. Behind him running down the small incline was Tawela Johnson. The M-16 strapped across her back banged against her legs as she ran. She was waving a sheet of paper in her left hand as she shouted. Another message. The good thing about Tawela was she enjoyed sitting up there in the small shanty on the hilltop with Beaucoup Charlie and running messages for him. The good thing for the men, they enjoyed watching her run. He hoped the safety on her M-16 was on. The way it was bouncing around against her legs and torso, she could accidentally cause it to discharge. He could take it away from her, but if he tried, she would be one upset young lady.
Beaucoup Charlie was their only means of communications with the outside world and their only means until either the United States shifted another satellite to this area or those Navy ships sailed within range.
“General,” Tawela said as she stopped in front of him. “Am I glad I found you.”
“Didn’t know I was lost.”
She smiled. A face that launched a thousand ships, thought Thomaston.
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