Joint Task Force #4: Africa
Page 28
“And Ojo?” Holman asked.
“It could be that they believe this new person—Mumar Kabir—may be more acceptable to the larger picture,” She paused for a second. “to the larger world audience, maybe. Instead of a general leading them, maybe Ojo has changed his name to become more acceptable.”
“I would think that would be hard to hide.”
Davidson smiled. “It may not be too hard, sir. We have no photographs of this Ojo—”
“We have photographs of Kabaka?”
“No, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “We do have photographs of a General Ezeji, who we know is with Nigerian intelligence. But our Nigerian counterparts believe that the man may have turned on them. Trust no one and you won’t be disappointed seems to be their mantra.”
PITS WAITED UNTIL THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND THE OFFICERS before walking up to the bed.
Razi looked up at him and smiled. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my best friend, the senior chief.”
Pits cleared his throat. “Badass, I owe you an apology. I have always thought you were an arrogant, grandstanding, egotistical braggart whose every word was designed to promote yourself.”
“Don’t hold back, Pits. Tell me what you really think.”
“What I really think is that I was wrong in some of those thoughts. Maybe there was some true unselfishness in your words.”
Razi’s eyes widened and he tilted his head forward. After a few seconds, he said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“All those other things about me being arrogant, grandstanding, and something egotistical—what about them?” He leaned his head back onto the pillow.
“Oh—those are still true, and it wouldn’t surprise me to discover half of what you told the admiral and the other officers were bald-faced lies.”
Razi shook his head. “You know, Pits? When I get well, I think I may have to stomp your ass.”
“Like how you took that crocodile by the tail and shoved him off the cliff? Or how you raced through the jungle, slashing your way toward the men, only to have to fight the terrorists hand-to-hand to save our sailors. Or how you broke your bonds to kill the leader of the African National Army?”
Razi nodded, a confused look on his face. “Yeah, what about them? They’re all true.”
Pits sighed, walked over to the window, turned a chair around, and straddled it, resting his hands on the back of it. “Chief Razi, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. What I do believe is that what you did was brave—foolish— but brave. It was what a good chief petty officer should and would do.” He slapped the chair. “And, I’m not sure I could have bailed out of that aircraft like you did for no reason other than taking care of your sailors.” He stood, placing his hands on his hips. “Damn! I can’t believe I said that.” He pointed at Razi. “You are a real pain in the ass and even as much as you piss me off, I can’t help but admire what you did.”
Razi smiled. “And well you should, Pits. What I did was what any good chief petty officer would have done. You think it was hard for me to bail out like that.” He nodded once. “Damn straight, it was. I knew I shouldn’t bail out, but out there—over that jungle full of things that can eat, shoot, sting, or fang you—were my sailors.” He shook his head. “Pits, I just couldn’t think of anything else except being there for them. That being said, I think you deserve some sort of reward for recognizing what a great and wonderful human being I am. So, get me out of here and let’s go have a few beers.” He pushed himself up off the bed and threw his feet over the side. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink? And to show you that I hold no hard feelings about you being an asshole; you can buy.”
Pits laughed. “I might be having a few beers tonight; but for you, my fine modest friend, you’ll be on an EP-3E heading back to Rota. A plane is on its way to ferry you back to mommy-san and the kids. Since the rules are no drinking twelve hours before a flight, there’s no alcohol for you.”
Razi lay back down. “Look, Pits. That aircraft can’t possibly get here for six or seven hours followed by at least a two- to four-hour turnaround. I could have several beers and sleep it off before they take off.”
Pits pulled his cap from his belt, put it on his head, looked in the mirror, and exaggeratingly straightened it. “Damn, damn, damn. Looks as if the hero will have to wait until tomorrow, or possibly next week, for that cold beer.”
“No way. Virginia will meet me at the aircraft with a cooler.”
“She’ll meet you in the hospital, and without a cooler. You’re being transferred to the hospital for recuperation, Badass. Rockdale and MacGammon have been released, but Carson is still recovering.”
“How is Carson? I only caught a glimpse of him when I was fighting those ten or twelve terrorists.” He smiled. “It’s hard to keep count when they keep coming at you.”
“He had a concussion and multiple broken bones in his left leg, but he’s regained consciousness and on the road to recovery. Don’t think he’ll fly again, but doctors say he’ll be fit for shore duty.”
“What a horrible thought!”
Pits opened the door. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to find out anyway.”
“What?”
“They have put you in for the Bronze Star for your actions.”
Razi grinned. His head moved sharply from side to side as if he was silently thanking a crowd. “With a combat ‘V,’ I hope.”
Pits turned and jabbed his finger into his open mouth several times. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you, but I figured if I told you, you’d have some time to get the strutting-rooster bit out of your system before the crew arrives.”
Razi leaned his head back again onto the pillow. “Hey, Pits. Thanks, shipmate.”
Pits walked to the door, turning at the last moment. “What else are shipmates for? Oh, by the way, I told the squadron to send the aircraft with the widest hatch.”
“They’re not going to make me use a stretcher to fly back, are they?”
Pits smiled. “No, I doubt it. But there is concern that your head won’t fit through the entrance.”
Razi smiled. “I think I can handle it.”
The springs on the door pulled it closed behind Conar. Razi watched the door for moment. It moved again and one of the doctors entered, carrying a brown paper bag under his arm. “Here you are, Chief Razi,” he said, handing it to him.
Razi pulled out a warm bottle of beer. “Oh, what a great day this is, Doc. Nectar of the gods. Remind me to name my first born after you.”
“It is Liberia’s own.”
Razi twisted the cap. “Ouch, Doc.” He shook his hand a couple of times, flexing his fist. “That hurt.”
“Sorry,” the doctor said, pulling an opener from his smock’s pocket. A quick movement and the cap flew off, bouncing onto the wooden floor. He handed the open beer to Razi, who stared at it with open admiration. “You promised to tell me about the crocodiles?”
Razi nodded, looking at the young African. “And I will, Doc. It’s just that it’s a long story and this is only one beer.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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