Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  He lowered the binoculars and scanned the open ground from right to left. Nothing indicated they were regrouping or shifting forces to the rear of the armory. Not that he could see. Maybe all this action was a subterfuge to draw attention away from the east wall in the rear.

  Thomaston glanced toward the pockmarked building. Every window gone. The eastern corner partially blown away by a mortar shell. He took a deep breath, pulled the handkerchief from his rear pocket, and wiped sweat from his forehead. At least, he had the venerable Gentle in the rear. Without a sense of arrogance, Thomaston knew the two of them were the keys for holding out until rescue arrived. He looked at his watch. Nearly two hours since the African had appeared at the front gate demanding surrender. Thomaston had offered the same surrender opportunity to the African, slightly amused when the man seemed startled by the suggestion. The African, tall, powerfully built, had calmly threatened to kill everyone in the armory unless they surrendered. The threat didn’t scare Thomaston—it pissed him off. What the threat told him was the man was one of the leaders. Only one of the leaders could have the authority to make such a threat. A lesser-ranked individual would have hightailed it back to the leadership for further instructions. Thomaston thought for a moment about shooting him—right then at the front gate.

  He would have died in the gunfire, but by God, it would have been one less leader against them. This ragtag, dangerous bunch of Africans and Arabs were held together only by the charisma of this religious fanatic. He wondered briefly if the African he had talked to had been this Abu Alhaul.

  This shouldn’t be happening in the twenty-first century! This was a scene typical of over two hundred years of history in the Dark Continent. Winston Churchill was right when he said that those who ignored history were doomed to repeat it.

  He watched the movements along the road and in the town as his mind recalled the initial encounter. Nearly an hour after the surrender demand, scattered gunfire of opportunity peppered the armory. Then, almost on the hour, pickup trucks had surged toward the wall, firing heavy machine guns across the top, wounding several townspeople, before the vehicles had scurried back toward the highway. He tweaked the binoculars. The highway was their main defensive line. Thirty minutes ago had been the heaviest, when the attackers committed ground forces forward supported by the pickups. It was only through the will and tenacity of the defenders that they had repelled the first attack. If he was in Abu Alhaul’s shoes, what would he do?

  Around the enemy command vehicle, something similar to an American council of colonels was probably advising Abu Alhaul on the next move. He had seen men such as Abu Alhaul in other Third World armies—the North African crusade came easily to mind. He had also seen petty tyrants in his own Army who were soon weeded out before they made lieutenant colonel. Every now and then, one of them made colonel or even higher, but they soon departed from active duty.

  If only he could communicate with the outside. If only he had one tank or one APC. If only he had a hundred real soldiers or National Guardsmen. If was a big word and a useless conjecture in a fight. A soldier’s entire attention was focused on combat, hoping and praying he or she never reached the point where worrying about conserving ammunition affected their fight. When that point arrived, it became the enemy’s game. You fought for the moment, and prayed in the real Army that this new concept of focused logistics worked. He always wondered if translating the business concept of “just in time” delivery to “focused logistics” was something that would work when bullets, bombs, and body parts filled the air.

  “General,” Gentle said from behind him.

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone’s out of the building and in the vehicle park, sir.”

  The whistling of another mortar round drowned out Gentle’s last few words. Along the wall, defenders dropped, burying their heads in their arms. He glanced up at the sky. This one was going to pass over the wall. He looked at the building.

  The top of the building exploded as the shell hit, blowing roofing tiles and shattered bricks into the air. Another mortar followed.

  “That mortar is going to play hell with us. Craig, tell everyone in the park to stay down.”

  Gentle nodded and took off running, staying close to the side of the wall. Thomaston squatted with his back against the bricks. He was pleased to see Roosevelt rise and peer over the wall with his M-16 pointed forward. The man had obviously figured out how to tell the path of a mortar round from the whistle . . . or maybe he hadn’t.

  “YOU MUST BE QUIET, ASRAF,” MUMAR FLARED. WHY DID Abdo have the right to choose for this mission? He was in charge.

  “Mumar, you carry this machine gun. You fight your way through the brush. You try not to trip, and then you can tell me to be quiet, my kaffir countryman,” Asraf replied menacingly.

  “And I must carry this mortar while Nakolimia carries the shells. They are exceedingly heavy,” the man stumbling behind Asraf added.

  Mumar’s eyebrows wrinkled as he concentrated for a couple of seconds, trying to recall the man’s name. His task—assigned by Abu Alhaul—was to place the mortar on the top of the hill overlooking the south wall of the armory. The man had actually touched him on the shoulder, looked him in the eye, and told him how important this mission was. Mumar’s upper lip curled. First, it was the Arabs. Then, it was the white man. Then, the Chinese, and now it was the Arabs again. Someday he would rid his continent of these outsiders. This he vowed. Like most Africans, Mumar thought of Africa as the land below the Sahara. He turned and continued his trek up the hill, ignoring the low grumbling behind him.

  He touched a small short-wave radio clipped to side of his khaki belt. They had found these nice things in Monrovia. They only worked a few miles. He turned the speaker down, but not so low he couldn’t hear the battle commands for the ongoing attack on the armory. Every time someone spoke, a slight click followed by a burst of static erupted before the voices smoothed out the transmission. He wanted to listen to the main attack. Every time he heard another group attacking the American armory, he resented marching uphill. If he had been down there, he would already be inside the armory. Many heads would be strewn around where he stood and everyone would know what a great fighter and leader he was.

  He perversely hoped Abu Alhaul’s plan to overrun the armory took long enough for him to prove his worth. Not for Abu Alhaul, but for the African foot soldiers who gave their blood for a fight that would never benefit the Africans. When he set this mortar up and lobbed the six shells they carried into the rear of the south wall defenders, he would be a hero. Not to the Arabs, but to Africans. This was important. His only warning from Abu Alhaul was to avoid hitting the vehicles. Mumar knew he must prove his worth if he ever hoped to lead his brothers to freedom, for in Africa only the strong and merciless rose to power. Freedom from the Arabs and freedom from the white man.

  Bushes crackled as someone fell behind him. A limb shot forward, whipping across his naked legs and the bottom of his khaki shorts, drawing a short yelp from him.

  “Damn you, Mumar!” Asraf shouted.

  Unseen, Mumar drew his pistol and turned slightly. He held the weapon alongside his right leg, pointing toward the ground. The dense bushes hid the pistol from view. His AK-47 hung by its strap from his left shoulder.

  Asraf lay spread-eagled across the M-50 machine gun. The big man’s hands slipped as he attempted to push himself up. “I shall kill you for this. You carry nothing, but walk ahead as if you are better than us.” He grabbed a nearby small tree trunk and pulled himself up. Then, still spitting venomous insults at Mumar, Asraf reached down with his right hand and lifted the M-50 by the stock, causing the barrel to sink a couple of inches into the dark humus that made up the rain forest floor. “Or maybe I will just whip you and make you our mule. What do you think, Ougalie? What do you think, Nakolimia?” He glanced back at the two smaller men, who set their loads down on the widening small animal path they were following.

  Ougalie, that was the name
of the man from Sierra Leone. Ougalie was one of many who were not Liberian. Ougalie spoke Bassa, a regional dialect also prevalent in the Grand Bassa, Rivercress, and Montserrado counties of Liberia.

  “It would be fun to see the tall giraffe carry the mortar. Maybe we could tie the shells to him and see how far he could walk,” Ougalie offered.

  Mumar looked past the two men to the third, Nakolimia. The Liberian rebel from the town of Zorzor was silent, though his eyes shifted constantly following the words.

  “Asraf, I am in charge. You will carry the machine gun. You, Ougalie, will carry the mortar, and Nakolimia will take up the satchel with the shells. We will continue,” he commanded, his voice low, steady, and more controlled than he thought possible. “And you will keep quiet so the enemy won’t hear us moving behind them.”

  “And how will they hear? Will a clap of thunder ring out across the forests”—Asraf clapped his hands once—“and say, ’Look here, Americans, there are three men behind you’?”

  “They may have spies or patrols to warn them,” Mumar offered, aware of the weak argument. “Some are smart enough to know how to fight, not how to shout louder to hide their own stupidity.”

  The giant glanced uphill at Mumar from beneath furrowed eyebrows bunched over narrowed eyes. Asraf’s chest rose and fell in deep breaths as his lips curled upward. Mumar mistakenly decided Asraf’s performance was that of a coward who used his size to intimidate and bully. He should have realized this. He smiled.

  “Don’t laugh at me! You are no better than the rest of us!” Asraf shouted, sweeping his left arm through the surrounding bush to point at the other two men.

  “I’m in charge,” Mumar said, taking a deep breath and standing as tall as he could. His height could be intimidating. His hand tightened on the pistol. He slid his finger onto the trigger. Not only was Asraf a coward, he was crazy. He was like those who ate the wild berries in the jungle. Only this one never voided them from his system. With his thumb, Mumar flipped the safety off.

  “You may think you’re in charge. You are but a lover of men. Your butt hole must be this big,” Asraf said, balancing the M-50 against his leg to cup the index fingers and thumbs from both hands. He laughed, looking at Ougalie, who laughed with him. “Yes, this big.” Asraf laughed louder. “You should have seen this boy,” he said, jabbing his finger at Mumar several times, all the while glaring at the taller but lighter man. The recapture of the M-50 by Asraf’s right hand didn’t slip by Mumar.

  Then, in a low, menacing voice, his eyes locked with Mumar’s, Asraf continued. “In Monrovia, when we had our choice of women, he refused to enjoy. He walked around the camp, watching us having fun, and when we invited him to sample them, including the American woman and her daughter, he refused. He turned his nose into the air as if he was so much better than the rest of us. Are you, Mumar? Are you better than the rest of us?”

  “I don’t have to wait for someone to hold a woman down for me to enjoy. I do not have to couple while other men enjoy the spectacle.”

  “We had two wild women and he wanted no part of them,” Asraf said, talking to the other two while his eyes remained fixed on Mumar.

  “You talk too much.” Mumar tensed, waiting for Asraf to work up the courage to make his move.

  “His nose was in the air,” Asraf said in ridicule to the amusement of Ougalie.

  Mumar kept his left side toward Asraf, keeping the pistol out of sight. Ougalie was thin, as if bereft of substance for most of his life, living off discards of others. There were many like him in the slums of the cities. Africans who would rather beg than work. This one was more of a coward than Asraf. Asraf was a bully, a coward, and dangerous when his confidence overloaded his ego. Ougalie was a true coward who would follow the stronger until the tide turned. Then, the man would flow with the current, rushing away at the first sign of danger.

  Mumar glanced at the third man. Nakolimia was slightly larger than Ougalie. The torn green half-sleeved shirt he wore revealed the wiry muscles of a man used to heavy work all his life. Nakolimia stood with his hands hanging by his sides, watching the confrontation and giving no sign of a smile or of revulsion. Nakolimia was a survivor. He would go with the victor, Mumar decided. In Africa, as in Afghanistan, changing sides came easy. It took only seconds for Mumar to assess the two men and realize the true outcome was only between him and Asraf.

  “I did not watch,” Ougalie said, stepping up beside Asraf. “I too enjoyed the women, but what my brother Asraf says is true, now that I recall it, Mumar. You didn’t prove your manhood in Monrovia. Instead, you watched what real men do to women.”

  “He probably walked off to relieve himself in the shadows so he could watch us without us seeing him,” Asraf said. He cupped his right hand and jerked it up and down several times. “Like this.”

  Asraf took a step forward as if unintentionally changing his stance. The movement was not lost on Mumar. The man was positioning to where with a fast move or leap, he could grab Mumar in those heavy arms of his. If that happened, the game would be over quickly.

  “She jerked like a bull with a bee under its tail, screaming for more. . . .”

  “If she was having so much fun, why’d you cut her throat?” Keep him off balanced.

  The big man’s nostrils swelled. His lower lip jutted out and Mumar met the hostile stare.

  “When I am done with a woman, she will never find another man like me,” Asraf said with a dark smoldering look. Blood vessels along the sides of the man’s forehead appeared to swell. “It is better they die than suffer the remainder of their life hoping for a man who can fulfill their desires such as I.”

  Mumar caught the slight movement of Asraf’s hand tightening on the M-50. He glanced down. The humus on the barrel showed the M-50 was no longer buried in the damp forest floor. While he had watched Asraf and the other two, Asraf had slowly edged the heavy machine gun to where he could swing it up quickly.

  “What d’you think Abu Alhaul is going to do when we tell him how you offered yourself to us?” Asraf jerked the heavy machine gun up in one smooth movement.

  The speed of the big man surprised and nearly caught Mumar off guard. He brought the pistol around and fired before the heavy machine gun reached Asraf’s waist. The bullet made a nice round hole in the forehead of the giant before shattering the back of the head as it exited. “I think he will believe you exaggerate too much, Asraf.”

  The other two jumped back. Mumar moved the pistol slightly so it covered them.

  Ougalie dropped to his knees, his hand clasped in front of him, and cried, “Don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me. I didn’t mean anything I said. Asraf made me say those things. I would never believe it. Never, never, never. Please don’t shoot me.”

  Nakolimia met Mumar’s stare. The Liberian remained motionless in the same posture he had held throughout the confrontation.

  “Ougalie, I think I may have to shoot you. You are Asraf’s boy, are you not?”

  The man fell forward, flat on the ground, stretching his skinny arms forward, hands up. Turning his head so he could look up at Mumar, he pleaded for his life.

  Mumar stepped forward, put the gun against the man’s head. “You were going to have a lot to say when we returned. Right?”

  “No, no. Nothing. I swear. I was never going to say anything.”

  Mumar smiled. A little begging and pleading was good for the soul. Not necessarily Ougalie’s, but definitely his. He reached down and pulled the slide back.

  “Ahhhh,” Ougalie said and passed out. A wet puddle of urine flowed from beneath the body.

  Mumar smiled.

  “Who is in charge?” Mumar stood, removing the pistol from the unconscious Ougalie’s head.

  “You are in charge, Colonel,” Nakolimia said. The man leaned down and picked up the satchel with the mortar shells. “I am prepared to continue, sir.”

  Mumar nodded. He kicked Asraf’s body. “He had it coming. If I hadn’t killed him, someone else woul
d have.” He slipped the safety back on and shoved the pistol into his holster.

  Ougalie moaned. Mumar kicked him. “Get up, you piece of monkey shit.”

  The man ran his hand back and forth, rapidly, over his head. Then he jumped up and explored his body in the same manner. His knees buckled for a moment and tears flooded down his cheeks.

  “I didn’t shoot you, Ougalie. There are no bullet holes for you to find. If you make me angry, or fail to do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, I shall put holes in your body and your head and leave you tied down for the ants and beetles to finish you off.”

  “Thank you, master, thank you,” Ougalie cried. “Whatever you want.”

  “Pick up that mortar. We have a mission to do. Our African brothers are expecting us to save their lives.”

  He was amused at how fast the Sierra Leone native moved. Someday others would move just as fast, but because of respect instead of fear. Someday he—Mumar—would rid Africa of those who would attempt to master his people.

  Mumar unzipped his pants and relieved himself on the dead man, ignoring the other two. They were his now. Finished, he rolled Asraf’s body to one side to free the M-50, then hoisted the heavy weapon across his own back. The ammunition cache he picked up. Damn, this was heavy. He should have waited until they reached the top before killing Asraf, but nobody was going to ruin his reputation regardless of how big a lie it was. He grinned, aware those behind him wouldn’t see it. Nothing like a justified killing to make a man’s day. When they returned to the others, he knew the story the two would tell of this would enhance his reputation as a leader with his fellow Africans.