Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  It was Edward Jones and the three sent to the Ivory Coast. They were supposed to go to the American Embassy in Abidjan. Though Yamoussoukro was the official capital of Ivory Coast, and had been since the early 1980’s, Abidjan, located on the coast, remained the administrative center for the former French colony. The U.S., like other countries, had its embassy in Abidjan.

  “Edward, you’re back early,” Thomaston said moments later when the men made their way to him. He reached forward and shook the man’s hand. Edward Jones was as dark as most native Africans. Thomaston had used Edward earlier when they first arrived to go places most African-Americans couldn’t because of their lighter skin. Edward was one of the original members of Thomaston’s group.

  “Sir, we got problems,” Jones said as they shook.

  “Oh, you are right about that, Edward. We got all kinds of problems, and one of them seems to be that you are back too early to have made it to the American Embassy. Considering everything, you shouldn’t be back here until late tomorrow at the earliest. What happened?”

  “They wouldn’t let us cross the border.”

  “Who wouldn’t and why? I don’t understand.”

  “They have closed the border, General, because of the civil war here, and they aren’t going to let anyone cross. The Ivory Coast Army sergeant at the border post said they had orders to shoot anyone who tried to cross.”

  “Why are they doing this?” Tawela asked. “We’re Americans. How can they stop us from going to our own embassy?”

  Without looking at her, Thomaston reached out and touched the girl briefly on her shoulder. She stopped talking.

  “I don’t think it was the Ivornians who’re doing it,” said Jones. “About a hundred feet behind them, I saw French Foreign Legionnaires. I shouted, but they acted as if they didn’t hear me. But they didn’t mind strutting around with their weapons for us to see.”

  “Well, it ain’t their country,” Tawela said, then quickly covered her mouth when Thomaston frowned at her.

  Don’t tell them that,” Gentile said. “Even when they set Ivory Coast free, the French kept their Foreign Legion there. They continue to rotate career Army units to make sure the Ivory Coast doesn’t—”

  “Did you tell them you were Americans?”

  “Yes, sir, General. They said we were Liberians and Liberians needed to stay on their side of the border.”

  “Did you show them your passports?”

  “Sir, they wouldn’t even look at them. The more I tried to explain that we wanted to talk with the American Embassy, the more I got this Ivornian look as if they had forgotten how to speak English.”

  “Kind of like being in Paris,” Gentle mumbled.

  Several seconds of silence passed. Tawela broke the spell. “Well, let’s just bolt through the border. Look at all the weapons we got.” She pointed the M-16 up, holding it with both hands. “We just show up, hold them hostage long enough to—”

  Edward shook his head. “Won’t work. Not just the French Foreign Legion sitting there with automatic weapons. They’ve at least one tank and a couple of armored personnel carriers with machine guns.” He waved his hand toward the general, his face an expression of exasperation. “General, they even had a command vehicle there bristling with antennas and all kinds of communications shit. If we try to fight our way through, even if they don’t mow us down at the border, with the communications they have, backup forces will finish the job.”

  “Maybe Beaucoup can contact the embassy and tell them what happened?” one of the men with Edward asked.

  “Which brings to mind, Edward; why didn’t you call and let us know what was going on? You got a radio in your car.”

  “We do, General, and that radio went ‘tits-up’—sorry, Tawela — about ten klicks from the border.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head angrily. “They wouldn’t even let me use the telephone in their guard shack. I told them I wanted to call back here inside Liberia. I thought that if they bought that and I was able to use their telephone, I would call the embassy and have them clean up the border-crossing issue.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. Cellular telephones are about the only things that work in Africa.”

  Gentle looked at Edward. “Did you try your cell phone?”

  The man nodded. “Of course I did. They aren’t working. Either the antennas are down or someone’s jamming the signals.”

  Thomaston nodded and looked south. Their options had narrowed. He took a pen from his shirt pocket, along with the message Tawela had brought. He turned it over and scribbled something. “Edward, you go with Tawela and help Beaucoup. I want him to contact the embassy in Abidjan.” He handed the paper to Edward. “Here is the name of the individual in the embassy who he needs to contact and explain the situation to.” Their eyes met. Both understood what the individual represented. “He may be able to influence those State Department outcasts who worked so hard and diligently to be awarded with a twilight tour to Africa,” Thomaston said with sarcasm.

  Edward took the paper from Thomaston and with Tawela leading the way, the two of them took off running toward the radio shack, Tawela leaving the older, slower man behind.

  Gentle turned to the other three men. “Go draw your weapons. Should be enough to go around,” he said, pointing to the dwindling queue passing through the armory gates.

  Thomaston raised his hand and pointed briefly to the south. “Looks as if we have two choices, Sergeant Major. One, march to the sea through that jungle, swamp, and rain forest, or”—he pointed to the armory—“two, take cover in the armory until the embassy clears this up or the Navy arrives.”

  Gentle looked south and shook his head. “Oh, sir, you do so have a way with making a soldier’s day. South is not going to be fun. It’s overgrown, lots of swamps — mosquitoes that you need a shotgun to kill — and no way a car or a truck — much less one of those buses — can make it. If we go south, then we walk.”

  Thomaston bit his lower lip. “I know,” he mumbled. “But it’s either escape to the sea and hope the United States Navy and Marines are there waiting, or stay here and fight off God knows how many rebels or terrorists or Islamic fanatics—whatever you want to call them.”

  “What about Nathan, sir? He’s a member of our original group.”

  The “group” consisted of nine men who knew the source of the weapons and where most of the money used to support Kingsville originated. The man was not referring to the African-Americans who had followed him to Liberia.

  “It doesn’t change anything, Craig. Either Nathan and his group have survived and will get here eventually, or they didn’t. We knew when we planned to bolt toward Ivory Coast we were leaving any survivors stranded. If anyone can make it, it’ll be Nathan. He’s got the smarts, the training, and the tenacity to make it.”

  Thomaston turned toward the north. “We have patrols out. We already know rebels are heading our way, following the main highway north of us.” He looked west, over the community center. The sunglasses cut through the glare of the sun. “We need to have an idea of the size and direction of those enemy forces, Craig. I don’t want to send you.”

  “They’d know real quick if we went south, you know.”

  “Or they’re going to know we have taken refuge in the armory. Either way, we’re the ones lacking choice.”

  “Tawela’s idea about busting through the border—”

  “Oh, it’d work, Craig. We’d bust through, we’d lose some to the firefight, and then have to hope that the embassy steps in before the Ivornians massacre the rest of us.”

  “The rebels have aircraft.”

  “We haven’t seen any aircraft since that first day. To them, we still have surface-to-air missiles. That surface-to-air missile you fired may have convinced the remnants of the Liberian Air Force to stay out of this. Besides, once into the thick of the rain forests and jungles to the south, there is no way aircraft can find us. At least, their aircraft with their technology
.”

  “If we go south, they’ll find us, General. And if the Navy arrives and we are in the middle of that mess”—Gentle jerked his thumb toward the wall of jungle that ran along the southern edge of the town—“they’ll never find us. Plus, we will lose many just for no other reason than they’re unable to keep up.”

  Thomaston thought for a moment. “Then we fight. Start moving everyone into the armory.” He looked at the armory east of the town. A vision of the Alamo came to mind. Beaucoup should have communications with the Navy amphibious task force moving toward them, but he didn’t. Why in the hell haven’t they heard anything? he wondered. Damn! Blind. Never knew this was what a commander without information felt, and that worried him more than knowing the small group of refugees coming from Monrovia had been ambushed.

  The difference between victory and defeat was which commander had the better information or intelligence. It amazed him how blind and helpless he was after being used to the huge information architecture the U.S. military carried into battle. He never realized it was there when they were fighting, but he sure as hell missed it now that he didn’t have it.

  “I could take a patrol west and see what the situation is like that way,” said Gentle.

  “And check on Nathan while you’re doing it?”

  “Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

  Thomaston nodded with a pained expression. “Sergeant Major, no one’s going.”

  “But—”

  Thomaston shook his head. “They’re either dead, dying, or working their way here. The rationale earlier today remains the same. Nathan is a smart street fighter. He will either get his people here, or there are no people to make it.”

  Gentle opened his mouth to object, then shut it. “Yes, sir, I know. But I don’t like thinking about it.”

  Thomaston, smiling weakly, reached out and touched Gentle briefly on the shoulder. “Old friend, I don’t think we have much choice. Move everyone into the armory and hope the Navy-Marine Corps team does what they say they do best — project power from the sea. We need you. I need you.”

  Sounds of running feet and heavy breathing caused them to look over their shoulders. Tawela, wearing a backpack, her M-16 cradled in her arms, ran toward them. Thomaston grimaced at the sight. Where in the hell did that oversized helmet come from? If she tripped, it would take both of them to unravel her from the weapon and everything she was carrying. A few seconds later, Tawela stopped in front of them, rested the butt of the M-16 on the ground, and put her free hand against her chest. “Can’t believe I’m out of breath,” she gasped. The helmet dropped, coming to rest against her nose. She pushed it back up.

  “Can’t believe you made it down that hill without killing yourself,” Gentle mumbled.

  “Good news, I hope?” Thomaston asked.

  Picking up her M-16, she nodded. “It sure is. Mr. Jones and Mr. Beaucoup were talking, and they said you’re gonna send Major Gentle to rescue the Monrovia bunch.”

  “It’s Sergeant Major, not Major,” Gentle corrected.

  “Whatever.” She held up her hand petulantly at Gentle and continued to stare at Thomaston. “So, when do we leave?”

  Thomaston looked at Gentle and slapped him on the back. “You answer the young lady’s questions. I am sure this leadership challenge is somewhere in your ample file cabinet of solutions, Sergeant Major.”

  Gentle’s narrowed eyes never left the young woman in front of him. “Yes, sir,” he said curtly, saluting retired Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston.

  Thomaston turned and quickly left the two, heading down to where the people of Kingsville prepared to evacuate the town. He bit his lower lip and lowered his head. He had always been told never to play poker for high stakes because he had a face that told everything. If that was so, then right now the word “worried” must be embossed across his forehead.

  A clap of thunder caused everyone to look up just as the leading wave of afternoon rain splashed across the landscape. Within seconds, Thomaston along with everyone else was soaked. Some ducked into their vehicles, while others ran for the porches of the nearby buildings. He noticed Gentle and Tawela were running up the stairs to the community center. Some remained where they were, stacking supplies into the pickup trucks of the convoy. At least it would be easy to move everyone and everything into the armory.

  Thomaston took a deep breath, straightened, and made sure the flap across his pistol was buttoned. Time to tell them of the change of plans. He looked south, trying to see the wall of jungle growth that marked the edge of the town, but the heavy rain blocked his vision. All he could see was a smear of green where the jungle formed an impenetrable barrier trapping them in Kingsville. He hoped he’d made the right choice.

  * * *

  “Let’s go,” said George, just loud enough to be heard over the rain.

  “It’s raining,” Jamal said.

  “Boy, that’s just the thing we need to cover our tracks. How you think I found y’all? It wasn’t luck. You left a trail a blind man could follow.”

  George pushed himself onto his haunches, his huge frame diverting part of the curtain of rain penetrating the bush where they hid. Tommy wiped water from his eyes. His sister, Selma, cradled against Victoria.

  “Come on, Selma,” Victoria said to Jamal’s sister, who was whimpering softly. Victoria took Selma by the hand.

  His sister was scared. So was he.

  George pushed his head through the edge of the bush, and after several seconds pulled himself back. “I don’t see anything. Stay close and stay together. No talking.”

  “Where’re we going?” Victoria asked.

  “Anywhere but here is where we’re going, woman.”

  “Just asking, asshole.”

  Even the thick flood falling from the skies couldn’t hide the smile on George’s face. “Victoria,” he said softly, nodding.

  “George,” she replied.

  George was gone, his body through the thick leaves and branches hiding the small space beneath the bush. Victoria and Selma followed with Jamal behind them. No way he was going to be left behind.

  The jungle looked different in the rain. It was always hard to see far in the tangle of bushes, trees, vines, and vegetation that weaved its carpet across this part of the world, but the afternoon rains isolated him as if he was in his own curtained world. It didn’t seem to him they were moving fast. The blurred figures of Selma and Victoria marked the path a few feet in front of him.

  “Here!” a voice shouted from the left.

  Jamal nearly bumped into Selma as the group stopped. Ahead, he could see George’s hand motioning them down. He squatted, raising his rifle.

  “Clear, my friend!” called another voice.

  “We can’t see anything in this rain.”

  “A trail led this way. Whoever ran this way was part of the infidels we killed. They’re here somewhere.”

  Jamal recognized the accents as Liberian, speaking that familiar clipped, singsong English used as the common language throughout this African nation.

  A third voice replied, “Why don’t you two just tell them we’re out here and be done with it.”

  The rain smothered a muffled grumble and the voices disappeared. They were looking for them. Jamal glanced ahead at George. Only a few hours ago they had been riding in an SUV heading to safety. Then, he had disliked this man. He was uncouth and whined about everything. The tart exchanges between Victoria and George had done little to convince Jamal the man was to be trusted, but here they were following him, depending on him to lead them to safety. Jamal looked back the way they came, expecting at any moment to see those chasing them jump out of the bushes and through the curtain of rain. It’s amazing, he thought, how George’s character changed when events shuffled the deck of leadership.

  George reached over, gripped Victoria lightly by her shoulder, and turned her to the left. He nodded and gave her a slight push. Victoria pushed through the bramble along the edges of the trail and quick
ly disappeared from sight. George stared at Jamal questionably and jerked his thumb toward the point where Victoria and Selma had disappeared.

  Jamal scrambled forward to where George squatted. The man leaned down and said softly, “Boy, you stay with them. Keep going the same direction I pointed. The Centos River is out there. I hope that they’ve sent rescue. If they ain’t, then you get across it and make your way to Kingsville.” The sound of voices reached their ears. George paused and looked in the direction of the voices. The big man reached out and pushed Jamal, causing him to fall onto a knee. “Go, boy! I’ll be along.”

  Jamal pulled himself up about the same time George gave him another shove, sending Jamal tumbling into the brambles, causing him to trip, and nearly fall. Ahead, he caught sight of Selma’s dress. They were only ten to fifteen feet ahead, but vines, interwoven among the larger vegetation and trees, created barriers upon barriers. The heavy rain hid the noise they were making as they scrambled away. He ran to catch them. His foot caught on a tree root across the path, tripping him. He fell, losing his grip on his rifle. It took a couple of seconds to recover the weapon. A couple of minutes later, Jamal caught up with them. His breath came in quick, deep gasps.

  Gunfire rode over the noise of the rain. Shouts in one of the guttural African dialects—Jamal had yet to figure out how to tell one dialect from another when they all sounded so much alike.

  Victoria dropped to her knees, pulling Selma to the ground with her. Jamal squatted on his haunches, his rifle pointed back the way they had come. They had stopped in a small clearing about six feet long and a couple feet wide. Bushes about six feet high surrounded them and from where they had entered the clearing, the leaves had closed, hiding the path.

  Shouts, this time in English, but too garbled by the rainfall for him to understand. He could tell it wasn’t George shouting. Jamal had no idea if that was good or bad. If he heard George, then it meant the man was alive. If he didn’t, did it mean George was dead, hiding, or sneaking up on those bastards?

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped, and like a flash, the jungle reappeared, colors exploding around them. If he was lost before, the enormity of their situation became even more apparent with the stopping of the rain. The late afternoon downpour had saved their lives. Jamal shook, realizing for a moment that if the rain had started later, those men would have found them as easily as George did. They could have stuck their guns into the bush and killed them without ever seeing who they were shooting.