Thomaston watched his loyal friend disappear around the corner of the building before continuing his walk. He needed to survey the perimeter one more time. Others called it management through walking—a talent many leaders had thrown aside for the ease of management through e-mail. Let the troops see you. Let the troops know you’re interested in their welfare. It was as important for those serving under you to know you were on top of things as it was for you to have a feel for how your forces were dispersed. No e-mail could substitute for physical presence. Otherwise, you brought your own self-made fog of war into the battle.
Thomaston warned a couple of sentries assigned the night watch to remain alert and awake. He touched each man or woman he passed on the shoulder.
Ahead in the starlight, two rain barrels were braced against the wall with a couple of planks across them. Two people were on the makeshift platform. One was female. He couldn’t see her face, but he recognized that energy as he neared.
Tawela Johnson sat with her back against the brick wall, her feet swinging back and forth off the edge of the planks. That familiar bright-white smile appeared in the faint starlight. Somewhere she had scrounged up an old Army helmet that lay beside her. Sweat matted her thick black hair against her forehead, down the sides of her face, and along her neck. Almost primitive in appearance, but appealing. She stared back. The faint lines visible in the darkness around her eyes betrayed her fatigue. He grinned. She might be tired, but she was enjoying this. She had no idea what was to come, and yet she was looking forward to the fight. He had been around enough soldiers going into combat to recognize the signs, though Thomaston would have been hard-pressed to point them out. Her tired eyes twinkled for a moment, making him realize how close to savagery civilization rested. A young lady should be second—maybe third—year in college, flirting with young men and enjoying herself. Instead, she waits with an M-16 assault rifle to fight an enemy she has never seen—and she grins. Civilization was a fragile shell always waiting to burst. All you had to do was remove an essential column of infrastructure and the walls tumbled down. Look how close they had come September 11, 2001. All because of religion—“Enough,” he said to himself. “Leave it be.”
Smiling, she waved. “General, how the hell are you, sir?”
“It was nothing,” he said, replying to his thoughts instead of her question. “Tawela, you look bushed,” he continued, changing the subject.
She nodded. “Looks ain’t everything, General. If it was, I’d be President.”
He laughed, drawing a larger grin from her.
He should be chastising her for sitting when she should have been watching the dark outside the wall, but he kept his words to himself. These were not professional soldiers, though by tomorrow they might well be combat veterans. He hoped they were fast learners, for there would be no second chances. He made a mental note to discuss sentry duty with the sergeant major. A perimeter patrol later tonight would be good.
“Tawela, I take it everything is fine.” He grabbed the planks and gave them a shake. They didn’t move. “Whose idea was this?”
“Mine. I got Roosevelt here to help me, and we moved the rainwater collectors here and threw these heavy planks across them.” She stood up, brushed off the seat of her pants, and leaned across the top of the wall and beneath the chain links. “With this, I can stand up and see over the top. Without them, I would have to fire into the air and hope the bullets came down on top of someone.”
“See anything out there?” Thomaston asked.
“No, sir. Just darkness,” she said thoughtfully, pausing for a moment before continuing, her voice serious. “I never knew the jungle sounded so alive. You hear the crickets? I heard a lion and monkeys earlier.” Even through the fatigue, the amazement of discovery emerged. “You know, I’ve never paid attention to the noises until tonight.” She turned her head away to glance again over the wall. “Just never heard them. I’m sure they’ve been there, but I’ve just never paid them much attention, even if I noticed them. They blended with our noises.”
“That’s the sign of a good sentry, Tawela,” Thomaston said, reaching forward and patting her on the shoulder. “Now that you have the normal sounds picked out, anything out of the ordinary you should recognize. If that happens, then call the sergeant of the guard—”
“Sergeant of the guard?”
“Yes, sergeant of the guard. Right now, that’s Sergeant Major Gentle.” Then, he recalled he had asked Craig to do a quick reconnoiter to the south.
“Oh, Craig Gentle. I didn’t know he was a sergeant of the guard.”
“Never mind, Tawela. If you hear anything out of the ordinary, you call out. If you don’t see us, you make sure everyone knows you’re hearing or seeing something. Don’t worry about false alarms. Between us three, I hope all the alarms are false.”
The dark line marking her lips curled back into that ever-present smile. He noticed the right side of the lip went slightly higher than the left. “Thank you, General. General, is there really an army marching against us?”
“No, Tawela, don’t believe so. Just a bunch of rabble who believe a bunch of Islamic radical bullshit and want us to help them meet Allah. So, you two, keep a good watch. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied forcefully. She patted her M-16. “And I got just the friend here who can help.”
“She means me, General,” Samson Roosevelt added.
She slapped him playfully on the leg. “Only if I have to throw you at them.”
Craig Gentle ran up.
“Thought you were going to do a quick reconnoiter, Sergeant Major.”
“I thought he was the sergeant of the guard.”
The two looked at her, Gentle turning his head back to Thomaston. “Sergeant of the guard?”
“He’s both, Tawela. When you’re good at what you do, you get more titles.”
“Well, then what am I?”
“I know what you are,” Roosevelt said, laughing.
Tawela slapped him playfully on the side of the arm. “And I know what you’ll be if you keep this up,” she replied with mock petulance.
“Tawela, Samson; you two keep an eye out there. Sergeant Major Gentle will have someone relieve you before dawn so you can get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said simultaneously.
“Come on,” Tawela said to Roosevelt. “Rest your gun on top of the wall and we can lean against it—”
Her voice faded as the two walked away.
“Poor guy,” said Gentle. “Hope he can hear something over her blabbering.”
“You were going to go plan our backup escape if we needed to do it.”
“I did and we don’t.”
“Explain.”
“If we have to evacuate, we only have three exit points. The main gate and two small pedestrian gates along the front. We have no explosives to blast an opening in the south wall, where we would need to escape in mass.”
“So, we either do it now or we don’t do it at all.”
Gentle nodded. “Looks that way, General. We make our stand and depend on our maritime brothers and sisters to come to our aid—”
“—or we round everyone up and herd them into the jungle and rain forest in the dead of night,” Thomaston finished.
“Won’t happen.”
Thomaston nodded. “You’re right. My good friend Reverend Hew would hem-and-haw the idea until morning, when it might be too late.”
“No idea so small it can’t be stopped by excessive attention to irrelevant details.”
“Learned that in the Army, did you?”
“No, sir, General. I learned that in Washington.”
At the second corner, a green flatbed trailer had been maneuvered against the wall. One of the few militiaman stood on it, his M-16 resting across the top of the wall, its barrel sticking through the small opening between the bricks and chain-link fence. The sound of humming reached Thomaston’s ears as they approached. Here was another unseasoned wa
nna-be soldier looking forward to combat. If they only knew.
Thomaston stopped, talked with him for a couple of minutes, touched the young man’s shoulder, and then moved on.
At the end of their tour of the perimeter, Retired Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston left Retired Sergeant Major Craig Gentle to carry out the few orders remaining. The smell of cooking sent a rumble through his stomach, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
The sound of a horn repeatedly blowing drew his attention as he turned the side of the building, heading toward the outdoor grills. His head shot up at the sound, and he began running toward the front. Thomaston rounded the corner of the building just as an SUV roared up to the front gate, brakes squealing as it stopped a few inches from the steel mesh. The horn stopped for a second, then began to blow steadily, drowning out the night sounds. Thomaston shaded his eyes from the glare of the lone headlight as people hurried to open the gates. The glare obscured the view through a windshield that appeared to have bullet holes. It looked as if the driver was slumped over the steering wheel.
MUMAR KABIR STUCK HIS FOOT UNDER THE BODY AND rolled it over. The headlights of the pickup truck cast a long shadow from the body across the dirt road. A second body lay a few feet away. He bent and picked up the M-16, held it at arm’s length, and grinned at his good fortune. Now, he had an AK-47 and an American M-16. The smell of cordite whiffed across the warm night air.
“Mumar, is there another gun?” the African, Asraf, manning the machine gun on top of the truck’s cab, asked. “I want it. I killed him.” The two Africans on each side of Asraf laughed and put their arms around his neck. “Yeah, Boss. We want one too.”
“You are stupid, Asraf. You are shit!” Mumar shouted. “I said don’t shoot.”
“Well, you may have said don’t shoot, but they had guns so I shoot, so you go to hell.”
The others laughed. “Yeah, man.”
“Yeah, you go to hell,” Asraf said again, glancing at his friends and laughing.
“I am the colonel, Asraf. You do what I tell you. We are supposed to capture one to take back to Abu Alhaul; not kill all of them. Abu Alhaul will be unhappy.”
The laughter stopped. Fear was a great equalizer.
Moreover, they had allowed an American vehicle to escape. Those in it would warn the other Americans.
Mumar looked to where Asraf’s voice came from. The headlights blinded Mumar, but the silence told him he had scored. He turned back to the bodies. Asraf made him nervous. Mumar had this itch right down the middle of his back. He knew Asraf was weighing whether to kill him or not. If he was in Asraf’s place, he would pull the trigger, for Mumar knew he was going to kill the big man before Asraf went berserk and started killing everyone around him, including him. The two Africans with Asraf were petty cowards who would quickly abandon Asraf at the first sign of confrontation.
It had not even been a battle. The Americans had never had a chance. The huge vehicle—what do the Americans call them? SUVs—had slowed when it approached the trees pulled across the road. Mumar had stood beside the black pickup truck, hidden among the roadside trees. It had been minutes before two of the Americans had warily gotten out of the vehicle. When they laid their weapons down and grabbed an end of one the trees, he had stepped forward, intending to demand their surrender. Abu Alhaul wanted prisoners. Prisoners he could interrogate before videotaping their execution. Information first, public execution second. Before Mumar could open his mouth, Asraf had fired the machine gun, .50-caliber bullets whizzing so close over Mumar’s head, he swore he could feel their wind. Mumar had thrown himself to the ground, rolled to the side, and brought the AK-47 up, aimed toward Asraf. Realizing he wasn’t the target, Mumar rolled onto his stomach so he could see the Americans. A stitch of .50-caliber bullets had blasted across the front of the SUV destroying one headlight and shattering the windshield. The driver had done a high-speed reverse, and Mumar watched helplessly as the SUV disappeared into the night. The two Americans lay on the road, blood quickly darkening the light clay.
He should really kill Asraf now. It wasn’t as if anyone would object. He was the leader of the Africans who followed the call of Abu Alhaul. He kicked the body one more time. The driver of the SUV was smart. He would have done the same. People don’t live long with .50-caliber shells passing through them, and to remain because of some self-serving morality would have meant the driver and those inside would have died also.
He thought about sending Asraf after the SUV, but Abu Alhaul had warned that they were to stop moving forward when they engaged the Americans. These were definitely Americans. He leaned down and saw a U.S. Army patch sewn above the right pocket. Mumar spoke and read English. Did this mean American military were here? He shut his eyes for a moment. They could never defeat real soldiers; even he knew that.
Back in the pickup, he lifted the radio and sent word of the incident to the convoy behind them. After intense questioning from Abdo, he was ordered to continue forward, but to check in with the main column in twenty minutes or when they reached ten kilometers, whichever came first. Kingsville was less than twenty kilometers ahead of them. They couldn’t get too far forward because the radios would quit working. Why did they have the Africans out front while the Arabs brought up the rear?
Two of his Africans lifted the bodies and threw them into the nearby ditch. A moan escaped from one of the bodies.
“One of them is still alive,” a tall African said to Mumar, drawing his pistol.
Mumar shrugged his shoulders. “Leave him. The animals will get him or he’ll die soon. Just leave him to his fate.” The idea of lions, tigers, or hyenas devouring the wounded man while he was still alive excited Mumar. He could take him back to Abu Alhaul, but Abu Alhaul wanted a healthy captive who could be tortured and enjoyed before they killed him. This one would die before they ever got back to the main column. Asraf would bear the blame for this too.
Moments later, they were off with Mumar sitting in the cab of the lead pickup. A tall, thin African manned the mounted M-50 on top of the cab of his pickup. Asraf rode atop the second vehicle, and Mumar knew the crazed man, even with all the bouncing from the rough road, would have his finger on the trigger. Hit the wrong bump and the thick trigger finger of the bush warrior would cause the machine gun to go off, probably hitting the truck Mumar was riding in.
Mumar ordered the driver to keep the speed at thirty kilometers per hour. Abu Alhaul’s plan was for them to reach Kingsville just before daybreak. The Americans would be in their homes, asleep, believing nothing could touch them. Be some nice women for his troops to enjoy afterward. He would watch, but he would not soil himself with someone else’s damaged goods. He grinned for a moment before the thought of Asraf crossed his mind. Asraf’s blood lust was too erratic. Eventually Asraf would kill Mumar if he didn’t kill the man first. He knew it, and he knew Asraf knew it.
Mumar glanced through the window at the pickup behind them, trying to see the huge man who he envisioned laughing and leaning across the top of the pickup’s cab. He touched the handle of the pistol sticking out of the black leather holster treaded through his belt, and then checked the safety on the AK-47 resting in his lap. The only question was when. He pulled the M-16 up from where its butt rested on the floor of the cab and the barrel leaned against the door. He tossed the M-16 behind the seat of the extended cab beside the other one.
“WHAT WAS THAT, DADDY?” CANNON ASKED, TUGGING ON his father’s pants leg.
“Shhh,” Joel whispered to his son. He put the tractor’s transmission into neutral and turned off the engine.
Parker emerged from the darkness on the left side of the tractor. “That was gunfire, Joel,” he said softly. “Been around too much gunfire not to recognize it.”
“Not too far away,” George added from the other side of the tractor. He had his rifle lifted and pointed in the direction the gunfire had originated from. His finger was near the safety.
Joel threw his leg over the
seat and hopped to the ground. He reached up and grabbed his shotgun. “Sounded like it came from ahead.”
“They may have heard the tractor engine.”
“The wind is blowing toward us. Let’s hope they didn’t,” Parker said. He spit to the side.
“If they have, they’ll be here shortly,” George added.
Victoria stood alongside Artimecy near the trailer. Jamal slid off the rear of the trailer, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s going on?” he asked softly.
“There be gunfire ahead of us,” Artimecy said.
The men had their heads close together, talking. Jamal wanted to go see what was happening, and when Victoria started toward the group, he went with her. Unconsciously, he scratched the mosquito bites on his arms.
“What is it?” Victoria asked in a whisper. Jamal stood quietly beside her, holding his rifle by the barrel while the butt rested on the ground.
“Gunfire ahead,” Parker said, his jaw rotating as he chewed the tobacco that seemed to live and multiply in his mouth.
“We have to know before we go farther. Wait here and I’ll go take a look,” Joel said.
“Better let me go first. That white face of yours don’t hide as well in the night as mine,” George said. “You gonna stick out.”
“Of course it’s so dirty now, you’d blend into Harlem,” Parker added.
George pushed around Joel and within seconds, the two men disappeared around the curve in the logging road.
A slight breeze took the exhaust fumes of the tractor and whirled them around their heads before blowing off into the night. At least the wind was in their favor, even if it stung their eyes. Jamal blinked several times to clear his of the fumes.
Victoria took the end of her blouse and wiped her eyes, revealing for a brief moment the firm mounds of her breast.
The two men from the convoy joined them from the rear of the procession where they had been walking since the group buried the dead child earlier that day.
“I’ll go with them,” the younger man, called Jose, said.
Joint Task Force #1: Liberia Page 22
