Africa jtf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Dick looked where Upmann pointed. Hovering was a small, prototype aircraft about two feet wide from wingtip to wingtip. Sunlight reflected off the lens that made up the nose and off the whirling propellers located at each wing tip and behind the camera lens. The single propeller in the rear pointed upward. The tactical mobile spy plane hovered in place.

  “Damn Marines,” Dick said. “I wish they’d practice their skills on this toy somewhere else instead of trying to sneak up on me all the time. Where’s their colonel?”

  Leo laughed. “Sir, he’s probably on the flight deck with the operators of this contraption. I told them to track the cryppie for a while and find out where he’s getting his cigars, but he insisted your orders were for them to practice finding you.”

  Dick turned slightly, his left eyebrow raised. “That’s not exactly what I said. What I said was I doubted these things could keep track of me, much less some unknown terrorist lost in the woods of the world.”

  “Yes, sir, but I think the colonel intends to prove you wrong.”

  “Is there something about proving an admiral wrong that gives subordinates an innate amount of pleasure?

  Upmann shrugged.

  “And quit smiling. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that you’re encouraging them to keep this shit up.”

  Upmann shook his head. “No, sir. If I was, I’d’ve already told them to knock it off as it was pissing you off, but the colonel is typical Marine — knows he’s right and since I’m Navy, I must be wrong.” Upmann waved at the small, unmanned aerial vehicle — UAV. “I was telling the truth when I suggested he use his ‘toys’ to track the cryppie, but—” Upmann paused.

  “But, what?”

  “Well, the colonel had a cigar the same brand of yours. He doesn’t want to track the cryppie.”

  “If that doesn’t take the cake. I know where the son of a bitch is getting those cigars, Leo. He’s getting them from my stateroom.”

  “Well, Admiral, you also have a box in your Flag Briefing room.”

  Dick pulled the cigar out from between his lips and holding it between his fingers, jabbed it toward Upmann. “Don’t give me that, Leo. I counted—”

  Upmann laughed. “You went and counted your cigars, Admiral?” he asked, spreading the fingers of his left hand against his chest. “You went and counted your cigars to see if any were missing? I hope you weren’t so paranoid that you wrote down the number.”

  Dick put the cigar back between his lips. “Upmann, in three months, you’re going to get an admiral that doesn’t put up with insubordination. Of that, I am sure,” he said softly.

  “Admiral, I don’t think Lieutenant Commander Springhill would sneak your cigars away, and I can’t believe you went and counted them to see if any were missing.” Upmann laughed louder. “Wait until I tell—”

  “You aren’t going to tell anyone, Leo.”

  “You didn’t find any missing, did you, sir?”

  “You’re wrong. I found three missing.”

  Upmann shook his head. “Admiral, let’s lock them up in your stateroom safe.”

  “Let’s don’t and say we did. If I lock them up, my officers and crew will think I don’t trust them.”

  “Well?” Upmann asked.

  “I trust them explicitly. It’s the cryptologic officer I’m not sure about.”

  “I can ask him if he took them.”

  Dick shook his head. “Don’t do that. If you do, then he’ll know I’m onto him and we’ll never catch him.”

  The noise increased off the port bridge wing. The unmanned miniature vehicle bopped slightly and rose another couple of feet in altitude. The good thing was it didn’t pick up audio. It only transmitted television signals from the nose to the receiver. Holman had been briefed on this new “toy” as he called it. The Navy, as he knew it, was going more and more to these damn unmanned flying things. Well, they could kiss his butt. You’re not going to control the sky without manned fighter aircraft, manned reconnaissance aircraft, and manned tankers.

  “Then, why don’t I ask Springhill where he got his cigars?”

  “I already have,” Dick said.

  “And what did he say?”

  “Said he got them from the same place I did.”

  “So, that should solve it.”

  “Not hardly, Leo. I get my cigars from my humidor.”

  Upmann laughed louder. “Admiral, let me see. You’ve got the Silver Star for heroism, you have a Purple Heart and Bronze Star from an earlier Middle East conflict, and you made admiral two years after you were in zone for promotion.”

  “What are you trying to say, Captain Upmann?”

  “Admiral, I wouldn’t let a cigar upset you.”

  “Three cigars, Leo,” Dick said, holding up three fingers. “The little twerp took three of my cigars. He told me so. He told me he got them from the same place I do.”

  Upmann was beginning to upset him. Maybe there was a conspiracy or, worse yet, a practical joke. He blew a puff of smoke at the hovering spycraft. The spycraft slid right and turned so the lens followed the smoke as the soft breeze carried it aft. Then, it turned back to watching Holman and Upmann.

  Dick turned, stuck his head inside the bridge, and shouted, “Officer of the Deck, bring me your pistol!” He saw the bemused looks being exchanged by the bridge watch. He looked at Upmann. “Let’s see what the survival capability is for one of these flying cameras.”

  The hovering spycraft wasn’t much bigger than some larger remote-controlled aircraft Dick had seen being flown by enthusiasts at the local park in Norfolk, Virginia. According to the Marine briefer at Headquarters Marine Corps, these things were called Combat Reconnaissance Vehicles Remote-controlled — CRVTR, pronounced “ critter.” These critters were a nuisance. The first time I catch one of these things hovering outside the porthole to my head, I’m going to have the colonel’s ears for garters.

  “Amazing how they do that, isn’t it?” Leo asked.

  The Officer of the Deck emerged onto the bridge wing. “Sir?” she asked.

  Dick and Upmann turned together. The lieutenant stood there with her pistol in her hand. “What would you like me to do with it?”

  Upmann glanced at Dick for a moment before turning to the OOD. “Nothing, Lieutenant. The Admiral and I wanted to check to see if you were wearing it as ordered.”

  She put it back in the huge black leather holster. “Yes, sir. It isn’t loaded, in keeping with standard operating procedures, but—” She slapped a leather cartridge pouch on her left side. “—I have the bullets here. And, sir, I am capable of loading it in ten seconds.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Dick said. “I’m glad to see you are fully prepared. Well done. You may return to your duties.”

  They both turned away, toward the hovering spycraft. “One of these days, one of these junior officers is going to take you at your word and we’ll have missiles flying, torpedoes launching, and machine guns blasting before they realize you were being dramatic.”

  “Leo, don’t I hear someone calling you?”

  Upmann laughed and nodded at the hovering spycraft. “I wonder how long they can remain airborne.”

  “Not too long, if you’d allowed me to take that pistol.” Dick pointed with his cigar. “Those critters would be a hell of lot more amazing if they’d go after a tactical target other than the admiral of this Expeditionary Strike Group.” As he spoke, two more critters rose to join the original, one on each side of it. “Yeah, you better have a talk with him, Leo. Tell him to go do some real Marine Corps stuff like shooting somebody or, better yet, tracking my cryptologic officer.”

  The three critters turned in formation, facing the bow of the ship, and suddenly took off together, leaving Dick and Upmann watching the almost science-fiction display disappear. Farther away, only the occasional sunlight reflecting off the CRVTRs made it possible to see them. The three small UAVs were hovering about a hundred feet ahead of the bow of the USS Boxer.

  “You know
, the Marines are really enjoying these toys. Wonder how they’ll use them in real action?”

  “I think they’ll do quite well, Leo. Imagine you’re in the jungle, which they’re going to be in shortly, and you know that ahead of you is an enemy in unknown territory. All the operator has to do is unfold it from his backpack, slap the propellers on it, toss it into the air, and watch his portable TV screen to see what the critter is seeing. They don’t make much noise and even if someone heard them, they’d play hell trying to see them. Meanwhile, with all their head-turning and searching, the camera on the nose will lock on the motion and quickly transmit the picture back to the Marines. They’ll have better intel and a more current tactical picture of what they are going up against.”

  “It is amazing the new technology rolling off the assembly line,” Upmann added. “Only a matter of time before some military contractor figures out a military application for it. I just never thought I’d see our ground warriors hiking around with a remote-control airplane in their backpack.”

  “The one constant in all of this information technology we keep incorporating into our military strategy is that you still need muddy boots on the ground to win the conflict.”

  Dick reached beneath the railing and lifted the 5"/62 shell casing. He ground out his cigar and let the butt fall into the bottom of the makeshift ashtray the gunners’ mates had made for him. “How are we doing?”

  “Should still be on track and on time, Admiral. We’ll dock in Monrovia tomorrow.” Upmann lifted up a sealed envelope and handed it to Dick. “And, this ‘personal for’ message came for you from Chief of Naval Operations. I haven’t read it yet, Admiral, but it’s from Flag Matters.”

  “Personal for” messages were sent from flag officers to others. No other rank in the United States Navy could send a “personal for” message over official channels. You had to have those stars on your collar to do that. The little-known office called Flag Matters, working for Chief of Naval Operations, informed you of where you were being assigned or when you were being asked to retire. He hefted the light envelope, slapping it against his palm. Inside, his future lay. He caught Upmann watching him. “Looks like I’m about to find out my future.”

  Dick ripped open the envelope and quickly read the message before folding it and slipping it into his shirt pocket. Now he knew what his future in the U.S. Navy held for him. He saw the waiting curiosity on his chief of staff’s face, but now wasn’t the time to tell him. He had mixed feelings over the message. The news was something he needed to digest, quietly and alone.

  “Leo, invite the good colonel to dine with us tonight in my cabin.”

  “Yes, sir. Any specific reason, Admiral, if I may ask?”

  Dick shook his head, allowing a sigh to escape. “No specific reason, Leo, but by this time tomorrow the colonel and his Marines will be departing the ship. Just call it an official acknowledgement of the Navy-Marine Corps team.”

  “That all, sir.”

  “No. I want to make sure he takes his toys with him.”

  “Guess this will be your last trip to Liberia, Admiral?”

  “Could be, Leo. It is an opportunity to pay my respects to Lieutenant General Thomaston before I depart Amphibious Group Two. Someday, you and I will sit on steps with our grandchildren and tell them of meeting this man.”

  Upmann nodded. “Fantastic career.”

  “You can say that again. Here’s a man from the slums—”

  “—a black man.”

  “Leo, you don’t have to be black to live in the slums. Slums are equal opportunity.”

  “Boss, that’s something we could argue.”

  “As I was saying before I was interrupted, Leo; here’s a man from the slums who rose through the ranks of the U.S. Army to three-star general, commanded the 82nd Airborne, retired, emigrated to Liberia, and now is the president of this former United States colony.” Holman’s knee knocked the empty shell ashtray.

  Upmann reached down and pushed it back on the shelf. “He wouldn’t be the president today if it hadn’t been for you, Admiral.”

  Holman gave a short laugh. “Don’t bet on it. Thomaston and his small band were doing a good job of holding off the rebels when we showed up.”

  “Me thinks thou doest protest too much. I had a long chat with his former sergeant major, Craig Gentle, and from what I gathered, they had already fallen back to the last barrier when our Marines stormed through the back.”

  Holman squinted. The Marine toys were reversing course and heading back toward the Boxer. They should be about out of fuel by now.

  “Okay, Leo. Granted, our timely over-the-horizon arrival played a role in defeating Abu Alhaul and his band of merry terrorists, but Thomaston achieved the glory for his stand at Kingsville. A stand that has played well not only in Liberia and Africa, but across America, also.” Holman patted his shirt pocket, his eyebrows bunching when he realized he had smoked his last cigar. He didn’t need another one anyway — one a day was plenty. Someday, he was going to have to give them up. Maybe sooner if he didn’t stop that damn cryptologic officer from raiding his humidor.

  “Gentle referred to the battle for the armory at Kingsville as their Alamo.”

  “You’re right. Thomaston said the same thing. He called their stand Liberia’s ‘Alamo.’”

  “President Jefferson, the slain Liberian president whose death set off the riots and mayhem in Liberia, would hardly recognize what his actions to raise some much-needed money for Liberia caused.”

  Upmann pointed at the miniature UAVs as they crossed the bow of the amphibious carrier. “Looks as if the Marines have decided to call it a day.”

  “Wish they’d go do some Marine stuff like shoot a whale.”

  “Now, there’s a thought that fails the Washington Post test.”

  “Jefferson’s idea of allowing African-Americans to apply for a Liberian passport caught on better than most would have thought.”

  “I have one.”

  “You do?” Holman asked, astonished.

  “Yes, I do. More as a souvenir than anything else, and I got them for my son and daughter so they’d remember their heritage. Wife being German, she didn’t rank one, but when she was naturalized, she did get an American passport.”

  “Guess we have entered the era of multiple citizenships.”

  “You could say that, Admiral. Jefferson never expected American blacks to emigrate to Liberia like Thomaston did with a hundred or so families. He even put in the citizenship clauses for these Liberian passports that you had to live in Liberia to vote. I think he expected some Americans of African origin to visit, spend money, and then go home. He didn’t expect them to move lock, stock, and barrel to Liberia.”

  Holman looked up at his balding chief of staff. “You’re not thinking of emigrating to Liberia when you retire, are you, Leo?”

  Upmann laughed. “Oh, Christ, no. My wife would leave me if I took her away from bingo, Wal-Mart, and the Frances Scott Key mall. No, we’re too integrated into the Frederick, Maryland, social scene to pull roots at our age and head off into the sunset for an adventure that could kill us.”

  “I would hope so. You know you can’t go back to a place you’ve never been.”

  Upmann’s lower lip pushed against his upper for a moment. “But you know what makes it hard for those of us who are black, Admiral? You can go home, and you can trace your family tree on the Internet — back for generations. For us blacks, we might be lucky to take our heritage back to the end of the Civil War. What Thomaston and his people were doing in Kingsville were analyzing DNA from the various African tribes. You could put your DNA into their program data banks and when, or if, they matched it to a specific tribe, you had a piece of your heritage in which you could take interest.”

  Holman looked up. Hovering above them with its camera pointing down was one of the Marine Corps’ miniature UAVs. “Leo, are we providing the fuel for these damn things?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Abdo, his
large frame pushing aside the bushes blocking the faint jungle path, brought the machete down time after time, as effortlessly as he walked. Each slash sent a wave rippling along loose flaps of fat hanging beneath each arm, hiding the strength buried beneath, and sending waves of small, flying, biting insects into the air. Abdo paused, wiping sweat from his forehead. He tucked the machete beneath one arm while using the free hand to poke loose strands of dirty black hair beneath the yellow-stained turban. Cursing, he slapped at the insects surrounding his head. A four-day growth of gray-speckled hair covered his face. Abdo stepped back, leaving the insects swarming around where he had stood. He glanced behind him.

  Abu Alhaul — father of terror, Mohammed’s chosen one, Abdo’s brother — followed.

  Abdo wiped his forehead and thought of how truly blessed he was to have a brother such as Asim — born again as Abu Alhaul. Behind Abu Alhaul followed less than thirty of the Islamic Front for Purification remaining with the Jihadist leader. Two years ago they numbered in the thousands — Africans, Arabs, Pakistani — so many, and now so few. Success had been great two years ago with them overrunning Guinea and Liberia before Allah decided to test their faithfulness again. The defeat at the hands of the Liberian president, Thomaston, caused the growing dissension between the Africans and Jihadists to burst like rotten fruit. The Africans shoved aside the teachings of Mohammed, and now followed this charismatic African, Fela Azikiwe Ojo, shunning religion in favor of nationalism.

  “What is it?” Abu Alhaul asked as he approached Abdo.

  Abdo knew Abu Alhaul both loved and hated him; he who was his bigger brother. It frustrated Abdo to know his brother fought his own internal arguments because Abdo failed to appreciate that Abu Alhaul believed Allah had much bigger plans for him.

  “The path splits, my brother. One goes north and the other continues west.”

  “We go west.”

  Abdo shook his head. He turned and faced his brother. The loyal ones who remained reverently gave the two brothers distance. “It is over, Abu Alhaul. It is time to retreat, reassess, and decide a new direction.” He pointed north. “We turn north, toward civilization, and an aircraft ticket to Egypt.” He sighed. “Ojo is following, and it is only a matter of time until he catches us — unless we leave. There is no ‘if’ in this statement, only a ‘when.’”