Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  “Everything is nearly ready, Sheik,” Mumar said, his deep bass voice resonating within the close walls of the room.

  Surveillance two months ago had told Abu Alhaul they would find Humvees, weapons, and Americans at this sore on Africa’s butt called Kingsville. Twenty kilometers from this small town where he and his commanders prepared for the advance waited the heretic Americans. Americans who had brought death, destruction, and disrespect to the Arab world. He glanced at Mumar. Arab name for an African. How stupid the Africans were. They blamed the white man for slavery, when it was his own people—the Arabs—who’d fostered the practice, and still engaged it in some parts of the Middle East and Africa.

  The Americans would die here in the land of their origin. Abu Alhaul reached forward and took another date from the bowl in front of him. Stability, educating the youth without religious influence, and this growing quality of life threatened the spread of radical Islam. The Americans were the ones doing it. The good thing for him was the jealousy and envy native Africans felt toward the Americans. It played into his hands. Even a second-rate mullah knows those two emotions cause people to rise in revolt. It made it easier to stir them to Jihad in furtherance of Islam. No, the Liberian experiment must die.

  Africa’s sparse middle-age population kept the continent ripe for chaos. The majority of the population was either over sixty or under thirty. Those demographic profiles accounted for over seventy-five percent of all Africans. Allah had truly blessed this continent as fertile ground for pure Islam by killing off most of the one group that could have controlled the youthful emotions of those under thirty. For Islamic radicalism to survive, it required what the West called failed states, and Liberia’s success threatened others by showing them the way out. This country needed to return to its former condition. To do that, Abu Alhaul must kill the Americans—the infidels of the Great Satan.

  Three Islamic militiamen squatted alongside a second armed pickup truck, sticking on the side of the driver’s door a large green flag with the Arabic words ALLAH ALAKBAR written in white on it. From a distance, it looked like the Saudi Arabian flag.

  “Mumar, we are truly honored today,” said Abu Alhaul. “We are witnessing a turning point in liberating our people who have fallen under the corrupt influence of Christianity. Across Africa, they will see how we met the enemy face-to-face and won victory. It will encourage them to take up arms and eradicate the scourge from their lands. They’ll recognize the greatness of Allah and understand my words as emanating from Allah’s own lips.” His voice rose in tempo as he launched into the familiar vision. A warped vision he deeply and passionately believed was right. A vision to ignite the continent while he still could, for time was his biggest foe now. Several of Abu Alhaul’s commanders mingled a few feet behind him. Near enough to hear, but at a respectful distance to allow their leader a small circle of privacy. Mumbles of approval merged with the sound of his words.

  “We will destroy the infidels who have usurped Allah’s way and who wield an unjust power against the faithful,” Abu Alhaul went on. “Destroy those who have opened Africa’s borders to Islam’s foe.” Mumar’s eyes glistened. Abu Alhaul saw what he believed to be admiration in the man’s eyes, and wondered briefly if it was for show, or was the man truly sincere, for Mumar had heard the same speech repeatedly many times. “They will die also.

  “I’m not sure which day it will be, Mumar,” Abu Alhaul said softly. “But one of these days, in this hot month of August, will be known as the day of Allah’s wrath. The day when the faithful drove from its shores the heathen seeds of those who would corrupt the will of Allah.”

  Abdo Almuhedge, the tall, dark Egyptian, approached from the direction of the convoy. The man smiled, raising his hand, palm outward, in a salute as he neared the two men, his gait wallowing from side to side as his heavy weight shifted with each step. The sound of rapid breathing was easily heard.

  “Abu Alhaul, we are nearly ready,” Abdo gasped, bracing his left hand against a nearby tree while raising his right to touch his forehead. He looked down at his feet for a couple of seconds before forcing himself to stand up straight. He stuck his arms out to the side, and took a couple of deep breaths before jerking a small red bath towel from a pocket on the long, white flowing aba. He wiped his forehead. “Damn heat, my brother. We should be back in Egypt, relaxing in the coffee shops, and enjoying the breeze off the Nile.”

  Abu Alhaul spit. “Egypt! A land that once was the home of everything we hold dear and now is but a lackey of the Americans!”

  “We could always be angry while we drank our coffee.”

  “It is a hot day, Abdo,” Abu Alhaul said, emotionless, his eyes narrowed at the overweight Egyptian. “You should lose some weight before it kills you, my brother.”

  Neither saw the exchange of glances among several of the Africans and Mumar.

  Abdo nodded, running the cotton terry cloth across his face again. It was a futile effort. No sooner did he wipe away the heavy perspiration than fresh rivulets of sweat leaped forward to join the river soaking the neck and shoulders of the Arabic robe. “In this heat, my brother, I will sweat off the pounds.” He laughed. “Of course, Allah willing, we will be back in Egypt and once again feel the cool of the Nile breeze upon our cheeks.”

  Abu Alhaul shook his head. “We have a long road ahead to travel before Allah will permit us to rest.”

  “You’re my brother. I followed you when we were children, and you know I’ll be with you when we are old. I would just like for us to grow old together in Egypt. If we stay here much longer, your younger brother will have a neck the size of a pencil and a body of a Saharan jackal.” He pointed at Mumar. “In a few weeks, I will be as thin as Mumar.”

  Abdo fumbled, awkwardly jamming the towel back into his pocket before he continued. “I have good news, Abu Alhaul. We now have ammunition. The trucks brought it from our base across the border. Several of the captured machine guns are mounted on the pickup trucks. This will give us momentum and firepower for wiping the infidels from the land.” He raised his arm, twirling the fingers in the air for a few moments before dropping the arm back to his side. “Our patrol says the Americans in Kingsville have an armory with many great and wonderful weapons that we can use.”

  “If they do, it will delay our overrunning them, killing them, and sending their spirits to Allah as an offering of strength.”

  “The schools have begun,” Abdo offered, ignoring his brother’s comment.

  “Good!” Abu Alhaul exclaimed. He stretched out his arms, encompassing the scene in front of him. “All of us are but a twinkle in Allah’s eye. Our lives are like so many grains of sand in the desert. We are born, we fight, and we die. Even the pickup trucks we arm are only good for a short time. The real weapon to bring Allah’s earth into spiritual righteousness is the schools—the madrassas. It is in these religious schools future warriors and martyrs for Islam are molded. For as we know from Muhammad’s teachings, this life is a series of devastating horrors in which we fight for the right to die in a holy cause. For to die in this holy cause sends us directly to Allah’s arms and the pleasures and rewards for dying in the furtherance of his word.”

  Mumar’s eyes narrowed as he listened to Abu Alhaul continue to discuss educating children to believe that martyrdom was the path of all true believers.

  When Abu Alhaul finished his five-minute lecture on education, Abdo ran the terry cloth across his face again and grinned. “Abu Alhaul, my brother, what good words. Meanwhile, I’ll wait for one of those martyrs to come to me in a vivid dream and confirm the seventy-two virgins.”

  Abu Alhaul smiled. “Abdo, why do I put up with such a disbeliever?”

  Abdo reached forward and clasped Abu Alhaul on both shoulders. He pulled his brother close and whispered in his ear, “Because we’re brothers. You look around and see these lackeys who say they follow you, but in your heart, we both know that regardless of what happens, I will always be here to protect and love you, my b
rother.”

  Mumar cleared his throat, drawing the attention of Abu Alhaul and Abdo. Abdo released his brother and stepped back.

  “My apologies, Alsheik,” Mumar said. “You asked I remind you about the new arrivals.”

  The smile left Abu Alhaul’s face. Mumar was right. Abdo was a pleasant distraction. Many believed the familiarity of Abdo calling Abu Alhaul brother was heretical. The truth was that Abdo was truly his brother. They had been two of eight children of an Egyptian mason who had worked hard to send his two male children to the Islamic madrassa. It was there where Abu Alhaul developed his belief that he was a chosen one of Allah. In private, Abdo was even more sarcastic about some of the tenets of Islam, but in the end, they were of the same blood. Abdo had followed him in Holy Jihad to Afghanistan and to here. He might moan continuously about the climate, but Abdo would forever remain loyal, for nothing was stronger than blood. No, Abdo would remain. But Mumar . . .

  TWO HOURS LATER, ABU ALHAUL TURNED TO THE PEOPLE around him.

  “Okay,” Abu Alhaul said. “Get the ammunition and people loaded on the trucks. It’s time to take Allah’s word to the American infidels.”

  “And the women and children?”

  Abu Alhaul turned slowly until his dark eyes fixed upon Mumar’s gaze. “They die also.”

  “Yes, Alsheik, but if we keep some, we can sell them.”

  Abu Alhaul slapped Mumar hard. The slap caused the low-level conversation behind him to stop abruptly. The African grabbed his cheek and stepped back. His eyes blazed at the Arab religious leader.

  “Listen to me, Mumar,” Abu Alhaul said, his voice threatening. “No one lives. To allow even one child to live means leaving the seed of war to grow; the seed of youth to flourish; and when it reaches maturity, it will come after you. It will come to overthrow Allah’s righteousness and glory. The Americans must be eradicated thoroughly. Do you understand?”

  Mumar nodded. He brought his hand away from his cheek and fought the urge to turn away. He feared what Abu Alhaul would do if he angered him too much. He had seen Abu Alhaul reach up, jerk the hair of a man backward, and slice the throat cleanly from side to side. Then while the man was dying, Abu Alhaul had slowly sawed the knife back and forth, cutting the man’s head off even as he lived. Mumar took a couple of steps backward.

  “Of course you are sorry, my friend,” Abu Alhaul said. “Just remember we’re here for the glory of Allah; not for the glory of money.”

  “Yes, I apologize,” Mumar said, but Abu Alhaul saw the words were not reflected in the eyes.

  “Money does help, though,” Abdo said softly, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  The commanders standing behind Abu Alhaul tensed, expecting the leader to attack Abdo also.

  Abu Alhaul smiled. “And that is another job for you, Abdo. You run the money and the supplies. You leave the victories to me, my fellow commanders”—he swept his left hand back toward the group behind him—“and Mumar, my African disciple.” Abu Alhaul faced the African again, reached forward, and pulled the shaking man to him, whereupon he embraced the taller, more powerful Mumar for several seconds before releasing him. A slight pain shot down his left arm.

  “Now, go, Abdo. We must move out.”

  Abdo took a deep breath, looked down at the trucks, and the armed men milling about them. “Yes, my brother. At least it is downhill.”

  “The rest of you tend to your men. Tell them to prepare to meet Allah’s glory.”

  He waited a minute for them to leave before he picked up his AK-47 from where it leaned against a tree.

  ABU ALHAUL GLANCED AT THE BODIES SWINGING ON THE poles, and a vision of his own body hanging similarly crossed his thoughts. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled the prescription bottle out, took out a pill, and slipped it under his tongue. Time was the enemy.

  The pain in his chest diminished, and after several seconds disappeared completely. He opened his eyes, took a step forward, and when the pain failed to return, confidently walked along the long line of tables. Discarded plates with half-eaten food littered the tables and the ground alongside them. Near the heathen church, a group of young children played tag as their mothers stood under a nearby cork tree, fanning and talking among themselves.

  Tonight, at midnight, they would leave this small town. A small group would stay behind to guard against an American or Liberian force coming from Monrovia. Once he had captured Kingsville, he would prepare for the second phase of the plan. The ship should be in Abidjan within the next seven days. Then, he would take the battle to the Great Satan itself while they wrung their hands, rattled their military swords, and sought to display his head on a stake. Little knowing, while they focused on Liberia and the American dead here, what was coming their way. He grinned at the thought, and muttered a short prayer of thanks to Allah.

  Abu Alhaul watched as Abdo eased himself down on the ground to sit with his huge legs splayed before him. His brother was watching someone working underneath one of the trucks. Abu would be lost without his brother. Abdo never wrote anything down, for he never forgot anything. If only other members of his staff were as efficient—and as loyal. Mumar hated Abdo. He could tell by how the African reacted to Abdo’s irreverent comments. He glanced over at the African lieutenant, who was marching in the other direction with an entourage of Africans accompanying him. He would have to watch Mumar. He was becoming too strong a leader of the Africans. They must never forget that Arabs led them, for who else could truly interpret the words of Muhammad?

  Four men appeared between two trucks at the end of the parked convoy. Both trucks had M-50’s mounted on their cabs, like the pickup Abdo had sent earlier today on a patrol. They had received only one report from the radio in the truck, and it was more fawning than providing information. Without satellite communications, the radios were limited to ground range, so reports from them depended on the patrol keeping within range of the main body. Even the cell phones were useless.

  He reached into his shirt pocket, brought out another small white tablet, and slipped it under his tongue. Three of these tablets in less than an hour. He needed to rest, to restore his strength. He was sure Abdo knew the seriousness of his condition, but he also knew his brother would never say anything to the others. As he looked at the back of his brother’s head, Abdo turned, saw him, and lifted his hand. No leader could ask for a more loyal follower. No brother could ask for more love from another brother.

  Within the next two days, they would kill the Americans in Kingsville. Abu Alhaul had no worries about them escaping to Ivory Coast. His spies had told him the Ivornians, by order of their French masters, had closed the border. This was but a diversion. A pleasant diversion, much like a magician trapping the audience’s attention on his right hand while his left hand accomplishes the act. Even if he failed to destroy Kingsville and all who live there, the other plan would continue. Abdo would see to that. A plan that would keep the Islamic revolutionary wheels alive, while the West worried about the next catastrophic act of terrorism.

  CHAPTER 9

  REAR ADMIRAL DICK HOLMAN LOWERED HIS BINOCULARS. “How many grenades has Spruance’s helicopter dropped?”

  “Three, sir. One every fifteen minutes, but I don’t think that submarine has any intention of surfacing.”

  He shook his head. “Leo, it’s either Russian or French. If it was British, we would have known about it, and if it was ours, it wouldn’t have been trapped so easily.”

  “I would think if it wanted to get away it could, Admiral. All it has to do is go below the sound layer and ease off in any of three hundred sixty degrees.”

  “Navigator,” Holman said. “What’s the depth here?”

  “Shallow, sir. We have two hundred feet.”

  “Should be deeper than that,” Leo said defensively. “We’re thirty miles out.”

  “Yes, sir,” the navigator replied, her voice even. “But the current and wind from the mainland pushes the bottom up in this area. Makes a north-sout
h-running ridge ten miles wide that separates the coastal current from the Atlantic Ocean.”

  The faint sound of the SH-60 Lamps Mark III helicopter drew their attention.

  “There goes the Spruance’s sixty again.” Upmann looked at his watch. “Right on time for the fourth grenade.”

  “Wave them off, Leo.”

  “Wave them off!”

  “Yes, tell Spruance to hold up on the warning grenades. If the submarine was hostile, we would know by now. They’re friendly. Most likely French, and don’t want us to know they have been trailing us. The good news is we’ve done something that will give the captain of that submarine nightmares. We’ve embarrassed the shit out of him. Of course, could have been worse and we could have caught him on the surface, but it’ll be bad enough when his peers discover that he was caught by a surface unit. If Spruance hadn’t decided to conduct a man-overboard drill, it never would have detected him. The submarine was following in their baffles. We can assume it’s been following us for some time—probably a surveillance mission.”

  “Don’t know why he would have nightmares. Current doctrine calls for two destroyers and four antisubmarine helicopters for every submarine you detect. Even then, you keep the destroyers out of range and fight it with the helicopters.”