Joint Task Force #4: Africa

by David E. Meadows

  Razi pushed his foot through a tangle of vines and when he leaned forward to put his weight on it, something gave, and in the next instant he was sliding down a steep hill, his helmet rat-a-tat-tating off the roots and rocks along the way. His helmet bounced off something huge, rattling his teeth, and bringing tears to his eyes, but Razi didn’t have time to think about it, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to run his tongue between his teeth and have it bit off. The incline dipped sharply, and Razi screamed once as he picked up speed. A moment later, his butt slammed into the bottom of the muddy incline where momentum catapulted him forward to where the ground abruptly ended, sending him tumbling into the air as if he had reached the end of a slide in some godforsaken playground. His stomach dropped as his forward momentum stopped, and he started rolling head-over-heels on his way down.

  “Christ!” he shouted, the word both a prayer and a cry, the rain muffling the shout.

  His body twisted in midair. Over and over, he kept repeating the word, “Christ” as he fell. There was nothing beneath him. It was as if he was in the middle of a water tunnel. Water above him, water below him, water beside him, and he couldn’t see a damn thing but water. Was he dead, and this was his hell?

  At the last second, when his tumble brought him face down for a moment, he saw a body of water below him before he rolled over, hitting the surface on his back, splashing through, thrashing beneath the water. Crocodiles replaced the boy soldiers who had replaced the lions. A chief petty officer never drinks . . .

  Razi’s head popped through the surface of the water. His mouth open wide, and he gasped deep breaths—the rain churning the water around him. God, if you’re trying to scare to me to death, you’re doing a damn fine job.

  He was in a river or stream or something that moved because the water pulled him along with a steady flow. There were lots of rivers in Africa. Some stayed wet year round. His head bobbed on the surface, fighting for air against the water that choked him with each breath. The current slowed, giving Razi time to check his aches, satisfying himself in a few seconds that he had no broken bones. He had a lot of sore ones and tomorrow was going to be one painful—

  Piranhas flashed into his mind for a moment before he recalled they lived in South America, not Africa. National Geographic was becoming invaluable to his well-being. A flash of green to his right caught his attention, and the waterlogged Razi turned and swam toward it, kicking his boot-laden feet to stay afloat. As he neared, a flat area devoid of vegetation emerged from the cover of rain. He changed direction and swam toward it. Better to walk out of the river than have to fight the bush. In North Carolina, water moccasins preferred the waters beneath vegetation that overlapped the waters. He didn’t see any reason snakes in Africa would be any different. Other than that they had one that could swallow you whole. He picked up the pace.

  A couple of minutes later, his hand touched bottom, the flight glove sinking into the mud. Razi pulled his hand free and stood, his flight boots sinking, nearly causing him to splash forward, but they only sunk into the mud a couple of inches. Struggling against the sucking mud, the current, and the rain, he walked the remaining few feet to the natural ramp leading up out of the water. When his last step took him out of the water, Razi stopped, leaned forward, and put both hands on his knees, taking time to catch his breath. The rain seemed to be slackening. Around the area, several rough-hewed fallen trees and limbs lay scattered, probably washed ashore by floods. He glanced ahead. A steep incline led up to where a six-foot-high embankment waited. He would have to climb it. Shouldn’t be too hard. He clawed his way up the churned and muddy incline to a flat area just below the embankment.

  Razi straightened and unzipped his survival vest, removing the compass. He let the needle settle on north and then glanced in the direction he needed to go. He was sure he had come out on the right side of the river so it wasn’t between him and his sailors. All he had to do was get on higher ground away from the river. He had to be on the same side, because if he wasn’t, then Razi would never find Rockdale, MacGammon, or Carson. He could wander forever until something happened to him. No one would ever know what became of Chief Petty Officer Razi.

  The rain picked up in tempo again. Razi accepted it as fate—a sign that he was meant to find his sailors and bring them home safely. Of course, if he didn’t, then who was going to find and bring him home safely. He zipped the compass back in the survival vest, realizing for the first time as he zipped up the pouch that he no longer held the survival knife in his right hand. Instinctively, he glanced behind him at the water, knowing somewhere between the tree he had been hugging and the mud where he stood, he had lost the only weapon he had. The knife wasn’t designed for fighting, but it did provide a small measure of security. No way he could have moved the knife fast enough to stop AK-47 bullets.

  He looked at the embankment facing him and walked toward it. He had to move. That six-foot embankment might mark where the river crested when the rains came, and he didn’t want to be here when a flash flood raced down this valley. He thought, How far did I fall? It could have been tens of feet or hundreds for all I know. I was too busy praying, breathing, and trying not to ruin my underwear to keep track.

  Stepping up to the embankment, Razi reached his hand out and touched it. Rotten humus and wet leaves covered the six-foot-high barrier. This wasn’t going to be easy— too slippery. He looked for a vine, a root, anything to hold onto to help him climb. A thin tree grew at the very edge of the embankment. Razi could probably jump and grab it at the bottom of the trunk, but he wasn’t sure it would hold his weight. He lifted one foot and then the other, watching the water and mud swirl around them. Then again, the worst that could happen was it could come loose, and he’d fall back onto the gray-brown muck beneath him. He would have to jump, grab it, and kind of crab walk up the embankment. If it didn’t hold him, then it’d be a dirty but soft landing.

  Razi took a deep breath, his hands resting on his hips, as he surveyed the embankment, looking for an easier solution. Looking left, a slight motion drew his attention toward the river. He turned his head for a better look. Didn’t see anything. Realized the number of logs and old trees were more numerous than he thought. Maybe he could shove one of them over here and use it like a step or a ladder. He turned back to the problem of the embankment when several of the logs rose from the ground and moved toward him. The motion caught his attention. They weren’t logs. They were African crocodiles. A second later, Razi was on top of the embankment; unaware of how he climbed it. The slim tree was on the mud below. Four crocodiles looked up at him, their mouths opening and closing. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and there be monsters under your bed, too.

  Razi took a deep breath, threw his head back, and roared at the top of his voice, pounding his chest. Tears ran down his cheeks, but damn it, he wasn’t scared any longer. Screw you, Africa. Bring it on!

  ”THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU, DICK,” THOMASTON SAID, looking down at Admiral Holman. The rain pelted the awning above them, forcing them to raise their voices as they talked.

  Admiral Dick Holman reached out and shook the hand of the interim president of Liberia. “I hope you understand that I have little choice but to rescue those downed aircrewman, General.”

  Behind retired General Thomaston, Dick saw his chief of staff, Captain Leo Upmann, step out of the small building across the open area that separated the two buildings. Upmann was returning from Airport Operations, a floor down from the airport tower on top of the building. Holman and Thomaston had commandeered the only waiting room at Monrovia International Airport, only to have Holman step outside for a cigar.

  Thomaston nodded. “I would probably do the same if I was still active-duty Army, but as the head of the Republic of Liberia, I have to think of the political side of it.”

  Dick politely smiled. Politics, politics, politics. Now, there’s a profession that could use a rise in unemployment. He dropped the cigar and ground it out in the mud. “ Definitely makes
you appreciate the small amount of politics we have in the military when you jump into the career field of politics. Domestic, national, international . . . worries within worries within categories.” He shook his head. “Can’t say I envy you this job you’ve taken.”

  Thomaston nodded without smiling. “It is different, which is why I have to formally forbid you from landing inside Guinea. The bilateral agreement between your country and Guinea for flying reconnaissance missions was predicated on Liberia ensuring that no Americans would violate their territorial sovereignty by putting troops on the ground.”

  Holman nodded. He had a lot of respect for Thomaston, but he found it hard to reconcile this apparent double standard of loyalty the retired general had developed. “I understand completely, Dan, but that agreement is open to interpretation. I don’t think a rescue party can be construed as putting troops on the ground. Just as surely, the Guineans can’t put four men bailing out of an aircraft struck by a missile over their territory in the same category.”

  Thomaston shrugged. “I wish I knew, but my people tell me the Guinean ambassador has scheduled an urgent appointment with me later tonight. I will put him off until tomorrow afternoon, Dick. That may give you time to extract those sailors. After that, I may have little choice but to ban flights that cross Liberia’s northern border area.”

  “Admiral, General,” Captain Upmann said as he approached the two.

  Dick returned his chief of staff’s salute. “What’d you find out?”

  “Thirty minutes out, Admiral. Number-four engine feathered. Temperatures are within acceptable range. Low-oil light flickering on number-three engine. Hydraulics seems to be holding. They’re dumping fuel and want to make a straight-in approach for landing.”

  “If they have to feather the number-three engine, that’s going to complicate them making Monrovia. It will leave the aircraft flying on the two engines on their port side only.”

  “Feather? Port? Dumping fuel, I can understand,” said Thomaston.

  “Feather is when you shut down an engine while in flight and lock it in place. Port is—”

  “Port is to the sailor as left is to us old soldiers,” Thomaston answered. “I remembered what port is after I asked the question. Feather is a new term for me.”

  Upmann continued, “They may have to feather number-three before they reach here. The VQ-2 pilot has reduced airspeed, trying to keep number-three engine on line and reduce the resistance against the airframe.”

  “If they have to feather the engine, does that mean they’ll crash?” Thomaston asked.

  Upmann shrugged. “I’m a surface-warfare officer.”

  “It could. Right now, the aircraft is dumping fuel— reducing weight to reduce drag. There are a lot of factors that go into making that determination, and the best people to make it are on board that aircraft.” Holman pointed at the sky. “Yeah, the best to make that determination are up there.”

  “Yes, sir. They are dumping excess fuel. That fuel will evaporate—”

  A couple of buildings away, sirens drowned out Upmann, causing the three men to cover their ears. A second later, two fire trucks roared out of the airport fire station, heading toward the runway to join other trucks already in position. The three stood watching, unable to talk while the sirens blared so closely. A couple of minutes later as the decibel level from the sirens lowered, the two fire trucks reached the landing end of the runway, and joined the two other fire trucks already there. Holman glanced up at the sky. The rain must be easing for them to be able to see the end of the runway. On the tops of the two trucks already at the end of the runway stood firemen dressed in silver-colored reflective fire suits, manning foam hoses. Foam was the fire-fighting weapon of choice for any gasoline or petrol fire. All water did was spread the fire as burning petrol rode atop of it like an unpaid passenger, enjoying the ride while wreaking havoc for everything around it.

  “That would be the Liberian volunteers,” Thomaston said loudly, above the fading sirens. “Thankfully, the U.S. Air Force is still providing civilian firemen, but eventually that will go away. We have been training Liberians to replace them. Gave a contract to a nonprofit company out of Savannah, Georgia-Southside or something like that—to teach our firefighters and medical first-responders how to do their jobs. Another year, and I expect Liberians to be able to do for themselves what we need America to help us do today. We need to be fully independent before the unforeseen developments of tomorrow jerk the cornucopia of American aid and support we’re enjoying today out from under us. It isn’t as if Liberia can expect America to be there everytime we need it.”

  Holman’s brows wrinkled at Thomaston’s words.

  The chop-chop of rotors on approaching helicopters grew as the fire trucks cut their sirens. Holman shielded his eyes as he searched the skies. That would be the Marine Corps Company that the colonel promised. The Air Force helicopters were gearing up for the search-and-rescue down at the other end of the runway. The Air Force was trained to do this, but in the event something happened and they failed to make the mission, Holman wanted a backup. He did not intend to leave his sailors in the jungles longer than he had to.

  The Air Force commander, Colonel Hightower, said his two birds would be airborne at dawn to bring back the Navy aircrewman. He had tried to convince the Air Force to go this afternoon, but Hightower was insistent that they needed to reconfigure their birds, and if they got to the bailout site and were unable to find the flyers, they’d have less time to search. He didn’t agree with the argument, but the four-star general at United States Air Force European command did.

  Thomaston lowered his hand from his eyes. “I’m going now, Dick. I do not want to know what your plans are, but officially, I must ask you not to attempt to rescue your downed aircrew. We will formally ask the Guineans to do it. It is one thing to fly over another country’s land, and another when you put boots on the ground without their permission. Good day.” Without waiting for a reply, Lieutenant General, retired, Thomaston walked toward the long black Mercedes-Benz waiting to take him to the palace.

  “What was that about?” Upmann asked.

  “He’s caught between the rock of politics, the hard place of being an American, and unable to decide where his loyalties lie. If we go into Guinea without his knowledge and bring out our sailors, then he can bluster truthfully that he told us not to and he never knew our intentions.”

  “I would think he knows.”

  “If he doesn’t, then he never deserved to be a three-star general in our armed forces.”

  Upmann handed Dick a soda. “From how he talks, I’m not sure he did deserve it.”

  “I try not to prejudge people, Captain Upmann.”

  Upmann drew back in mock shock and then leaned close to Holman. “Sorry, Admiral. Just wanted to make sure it was you.”

  “Thanks. How much longer until they land?”

  “Twenty-five minutes, Admiral. I would suggest we go over to the American Liaison Office and wait. When the aircraft lands, that’s where Naval Intelligence has asked the crew be brought.”

  The two walked along the front edges of the small white buildings lining the runway, keeping close to them as shelter from the rain, and running from one to the other. Someone at one time had slapped white paint over the buildings, but years of weather and neglect had left them with holes, broken windows, and cracked floors, giving each building a unique appearance. Otherwise, the buildings, one after the other, would have been almost identical.

  Across the two runways and taxiways, several helicopters and small jet trainers sat idle, their sides painted with Liberian marks. One bomb would take out the entire Liberian Air Force, but why would you take out something that was no threat to you? Upmann kept up a running dialogue as the two moved, apprising Admiral Dick Holman of the conditions of the aircrew; the aircraft; and the four men who were on the ground in Guinea.

  The idea that a chief petty officer jumped for no other reason than loyalty to his sailors�
�Holman took a deep breath. Things like that made him proud to be an American warrior. No greater value can a leader have than to risk his or her own life for the lives of their troops. He and Admiral Duncan James, head of the Navy’s SEALs, were talking once about people moving through their careers, climbing that ladder behind them. People who would one day stand where they stood today, making life-and-death decisions. You reach the twilight of a military career wondering about the caliber of the folks following you, and you’re proud when you reach the conclusion that they are the best of the best. Both of them had reached this same conclusion—before their third mile. The military, not just the Navy, was filled with stories such as this, lending confidence that when the old-timers of today were relieved by the newcomers of tomorrow, the military was being passed into great, confident hands to defend the Constitution of the United States of America. Next year, when Rear Admiral–lower-half Xavier Bennett relieved him, Dick Holman would leave a navy manned by some of the greatest people America had to offer. People such as this chief petty officer, Wilbur Razi. Holman stepped in a puddle, the water cascading above the top of and pouring into his shoe. He should have worn his flight suit and boots.

  Somewhere out there in the jungle was this chief petty officer, hurrying toward his sailors, unafraid—doing his duty, and risking his life for his sailors. Dick promised himself to see that the man received recognition for this act of heroism. Chief Razi must be one brave soul to leap out of an aircraft when he didn’t have to do it. Dick shook his head slightly. The idea of being alone in the jungle would be terrifying to him, but he had no doubt this chief petty officer was a lot braver than he’d be in the same situation.

  The rain picked up again as they dashed between buildings. Stopping briefly beneath an eave, Upmann and Holman could barely see the next building. Dick heard Upmann talking, but he couldn’t make out what his chief of staff was saying. The noise of the rain pelting the tin roof of the building drowned out everything around them. His hand hit against his pants. Dick looked. His khakis were soaked, but he consoled himself with the understanding that in Africa, what is wet one moment is steam dried the next.