Africa jtf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “Of course. I agree completely. We finish one step at a time—”

  “Not engage the world all at once. For the Americans, as well as the French in the Ivory Coast, we will wage our battles with them in the court of world opinion, and to do that we must avoid anything that gives them reason to take action against us.”

  “Would not you say this aircraft is an action against us, General Ojo?” Niewu asked, his voice betraying the fatigue of old age.

  Ojo shook his head. “No, the aircraft is an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft filled with American military men twirling their cameras, staring at their radars, and searching the jungles beneath them with binoculars. What can they see through the jungle blanket that barely lets the sun hit our faces? As long as we stay away from anything electronic, not light campfires, and avoid open areas, we are safe.”

  “What do you think they will do if they do find us?”

  Ojo shrugged. “I think they will just fly more and stay overhead more, orbiting and orbiting, trying to discover who and what we are. I think we are an enigma, and America, like France, and even your home country of Nigeria, dislikes enigmas near their centers of influence and power.”

  “That would be dangerous,” Ezeji said.

  “What would be dangerous?” Niewu asked, coming closer.

  “Dangerous to have them orbiting overhead all the time. Then, no matter where we moved, we would be tracked and the American presence would tell everyone where we are, like a float above a fishing line.

  Ojo nodded and pointed up. “The airplane is leaving. Once the troops are realigned, General Ezeji, we will continue. We will pursue in the three lines of advance, with you in the center and Darin on our left and Kabaka to our right. Somewhere ahead awaits our quarry, and once we are done with Abu Alhaul and have rid Africa of his Jihadist schools and teachings of death, we will move to the next step for an independent and poverty-free Africa. The Americans will be happy when they learn of what we have done. It is the Americans who make me more nervous than the French or the British, so if we convince them we are no threat to their homeland, they will leave us alone.”

  “They will never leave us alone. They will view what we have done in the villages as war crimes. They will continue to look for you.”

  “How can they say it is a war crime to disarm a terrorist? Those boys we killed were already dedicated to dying in a suicide explosion to take themselves and as many innocents as they could with them. I would say we have disarmed the terrorists by killing them.”

  “They won’t see it that way. They will see us killing children and say we are war criminals. They may back away from trying to engage us militarily or through their CIA, but they will forever watch us.”

  “I prefer them watching to acting.”

  “If we convince them we are a positive factor in their war against terrorism, they may even provide dollars to help us in our attempt to raise our people out of poverty.”

  Ezeji exhaled loudly. “Africa will always have its poverty.”

  “You may be right,” Ojo sighed. “But we would be wrong not to try.” Poverty is a great cause for rallying a people, he thought.

  “We can try—”

  The cry of a point sentry interrupted Ezeji, drawing both their attention. The noise of weapons being unlimbered and the clicks of safeties switching off reminded Ojo of childhood and witnessing swarms of locusts rolling across the countryside like great waves washing away everything beneath them. The fading sound of the American aircraft was lost in the noise of soldiers preparing for the unexpected, and when the rising noise of the army achieving readiness settled, the sound of the American aircraft had vanished completely. Ojo glanced up at the jungle canopy, wondering where the aircraft had gone. For whatever reason, the aircraft had been overhead and now had left the area. Would it return?

  A soldier rushed up to General Ezeji, whispered something, and quickly departed.

  “Seems one of our patrols has returned.”

  A few minutes later, two of Ojo’s enforcers — soldiers chosen personally by him with the belief that their loyalty was to him and to him alone — led several young boys through the brush to where Ojo and the other two stood. He guessed the oldest boy to be twelve, but individual age was, at best, a guess in the growing African epoch of orphans. Four, he counted, each carrying an AK-47, the weapon of choice for terrorists and freedom fighters alike. The smallest, and most likely the youngest, had his weapon slung over his shoulder with the barrel pointing down. With each step the AK-47 bounced off the boy’s lower leg only a couple of inches above the ankle. AK-47—the weapon of choice for an impoverished army. Ojo nodded in admiration of the boys. All four marched, heads high, lips pursed together. He could see their pride in being soldiers in the African National Army. He doubted that they realized how expendable they were as a fighting element. It was the young ones that were sent forward to reconnoiter the terrain and to be the trailblazers for the main body. The loss of a child warrior was preferred over an adult. Africa was the continent of child warriors. Child warriors so numerous that they were an expendable item for the army, like a basket of corn leaking kernels, many at a time. For a brief moment, Ojo wondered how many had died in his battles. His head dipped for a moment. They never buried their dead, leaving them to the jungle to return to mother earth.

  “General Ojo,” the enforcer leading the boys said, his hand raised in a British-style salute. “This group has been sent back. They have found our target.”

  Ojo nodded at the young leader of the four. “You have found the Arabs?”

  “Yes, General Ojo,” The tallest boy in front said, raising his thin hand in imitation of the salute like the enforcer. “ Little Nikku is following them, staying out of sight, and marking the trail. He sent me back with my boys to tell you.”

  Ojo smiled. “You can drop your hand,” he said to the boy, who smiled and dropped the salute.

  Ojo glanced at Ezeji. “Little Nikku?”

  Ezeji shrugged. The enforcer in the rear of the boys answered. “Nikku is the number-one tracker for General Ezeji,” he said, nodding down at the boys standing in front of him. “He leads these fine African warriors for you, General Ojo.”

  For the next few minutes the leader of the patrol debriefed General Ojo about where Abu Alhaul was located and how there appeared to be only twenty or thirty followers, at the most, with him. The Arabs were fleeing toward the edge of the jungle that opened into the plains of Guinea. Ojo and Ezeji peppered the boys with questions about the weapons and disposition of Abu Alhaul and his forces. Finally satisfied, Ojo stepped back and smiled at the four boys.

  “I see. Okay, my soldiers,” Ojo said to the leader. “Go have some food and water. When you finish, come see General Ezeji, who will give you instructions.” He turned to Ezeji, “So these are yours?”

  “I am afraid I don’t know everyone who has joined my ranks, General.”

  “Thank you, General Ojo,” the leader of the four boys said, “but we must go see General Kabaka first. He has ordered us to report to him everything we see.”

  He couldn’t help himself. Blood rushed to his face as a wave of anger swept over him. Without the guise of his rich African skin, he would never have hidden how much this knowledge affected him. He stopped in midbreath and forced his breathing to slow, his eyelids and brow to relax. Hide visible emotion. No one must know of his desire to kill Kabaka. This tall, lithe warrior from some nondescript tribe in Ghana was becoming more than a nuisance, he was breeding discontent and fermenting disloyalty. These boy soldiers couldn’t know, but on the blank slate of childhood, others, such as Abu Alhaul, had written their own mantras, sending thousands of innocents to death.

  “You are in my command!” Ezeji shouted, stepping forward and with a quicker motion than Ojo thought possible, the Nigerian’s hand drew back and slapped the boy. “You will obey only me.”

  The blow sent the young boy reeling backward into the shorter lad behind him, knocking both of t
hem to the ground. Ojo saw the tears well up in the young soldier’s eyes as he lifted his hand and rubbed his cheek. The child warrior had no idea why his general had slapped him. The other lad pushed the boy off him and scurried away to where the others had stepped back.

  Ezeji stepped forward. Ojo put his hand on the larger man’s arm. “No, let him be. He is still part of your command, General. In a way, it is good that he told us what General Kabaka asked him to do. It affirms that we are teaching our soldiers to obey the orders of those above them. It’s part of being a soldier.”

  “But—”

  Ojo shook his head and turned to the boy on the ground. The other three took another step away, no longer wanting to be associated with the boy who was, until moments ago, their leader. Loyalty was a fragile thing in a rebel army and the slap by their general had immediately destroyed any hope this lad had of resuming his role as their leader. It was something the boy on the ground wouldn’t discover until much later.

  “Get up and go do what you were ordered,” Ojo said, unable to hide the sharp tone. He hated the idea of Kabaka’s tentacles twisting and churning through the ranks of his army, feeding the ambition of this one person he mistrusted the most. “You are right to tell us what your orders were.”

  “Kill him,” Ezeji whispered. “Kill him before we—”

  The young boy on the ground thought Ezeji meant him. He jumped up and took off running. Ojo and Ezeji turned and watched the lad disappear into the jungle.

  “Enough, General,” Ojo interrupted, raising his hand. “Kabaka is a loyal soldier who follows my orders. We have no cause to worry.” Ojo thought, I lie so easily to keep the army together. Ezeji, you are right: When the time is right, I will kill him. Every action has a time and sometimes that very time calls for no action. Today is not the day for Kabaka. Soon — so very soon. I will know when the time is right. Deaths must help, not shatter, the tender glue of a cause that holds us together. I wonder if my death will ever be required and, if so, who decides such a thing? He glanced at Ezeji for a moment.

  “Of course, General Ojo,” Ezeji apologized, looking down at his feet and withdrawing a couple of steps. “With your permission, I will send a company of older soldiers— maybe some in their twenties,” he said with what Ojo thought was sarcasm, “to where Abu Alhaul and his hundreds wait.”

  “There are no more hundreds,” Ojo said. “These soldiers tell us their numbers are small. There is only he and his core. We kill them and we will mop up the sleepers he leaves behind. Human weapons trained to kill and die. How stupid are we when we are young, so young to believe everything we are told? We are at a crossroad to jerk Africa away from the self-destruction of Jihad.” He paused for a moment, then looked at the Nigerian and smiled. “Go ahead, General. And, while you are sending others forward, send someone for General Kabaka.”

  “I sent someone earlier to make sure he was in position for when we encounter Abu Alhaul. He sent a reply back saying he knew his job and he was in position.”

  “That’s good, but I still would like him to come see me. Did you ask him to join us?”

  Ezeji looked up and shook his head. “I only want to know where he is. The less I am around him, the better. I compare my desire to know where he is to the Americans wanting to know where we are at all times. Who was it that said, ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’? I think whoever said it had great insight, so I want to know where Kabaka is at all times. Unlike my esteemed leader and commander, I have little trust in this general.”

  “I agree it is best to keep our most active general close.” Ojo smiled. For Ezeji to feel comfortable to voice his suspicions and fears reassured Ojo of his loyalty.

  Ezeji laughed. “Active isn’t the word I would use. Sir, here is my proposal for encircling Abu Alhaul, since we know his location.”

  For the next several minutes the two men talked. Niewu sat down on the ground to rest his old bones, and he listened with his head turned upward. Ezeji’s soldiers would vault ahead of Abu Alhaul to block the terrorist’s escape route while the ANA would continue its pursuit, spread out so no one could escape. Somewhere ahead, Ezeji’s Nigerians would engage the Arabs and hold them — slow them down at worst case — until the main body of the ANA surrounded and crushed the invaders.

  * * *

  ”The airplane is returning,” Abu Alhaul said.

  “We’re ready,” Abdo said, pointing at the four men squatting twenty meters away, their black turbans torn and dirty.

  Each held a surface-to-air missile canister between their knees. Abu Alhaul took a deep breath. Was Allah with him, or had he done something to cause his God to turn His back on him? This would be a sign. If he was successful and blew the Americans from the sky, then it would be Allah showing him — Abu Alhaul, father of terror — he was still blessed. If the missiles missed, and he didn’t see how four of them could, then it would be evident that he must go away and restore the holistic link between him and Allah. If only everyone could recognize his Holiness and that Abu Alhaul, like Osama, was His messenger, then the world would bask in the glory of Shara, the law of Islam, as they rid the earth of heretics.

  “Up!” Abdo shouted at the men. “Prepare to fire.”

  “The aircraft is still approaching,” Abu Alhaul said, placing his hand on Abdo’s arm.

  “Yes, my brother, but we want to be ready.”

  “Allah will provide.”

  “Then He should hurry, because we are hungry and thirsty, also.”

  Abu Alhaul jerked his hand off his brother’s arm. “You blaspheme. You will bring wrath upon us.”

  Abdo leaned close to his brother and, in a sharp tone Abu Alhaul had not heard since their childhood, said, “Asim, it is time to quit being foolish. You have to pull yourself out of the vapors of religion long enough to understand that those behind us want to kill us; those above us want to kill us; and, wherever you and I go, there will be stacks of rewards for whoever else wants to kill us—” Abdo stopped, waved his hands about for a few moment. “Damn it, Asim. You’re not Abu Alhaul anymore. Abu Alhaul is dead. He has failed. You’re Asim, my brother. Allah has abandoned us.” Abdo leaned forward and pointed at the small cadre scattered around them. He whispered, “They can turn us into anyone and be rich the rest of their lives. Turning us in, also saves theirs. Right now, they stand with us, but when they truly realize they are going to die, their loyalty will disappear like water in the desert.”

  “You are wrong!” Abu Alhaul said sharply. “My disciples will never abandon me, and whatever happens to us will be the will of Allah.”

  “We just went through that. Let us fire these missiles and hope they at least penetrate the jungle overhead and don’t turn and kill us.”

  “They will hit Great Satan’s aircraft and kill everyone on board.”

  A deep sigh accompanied Abdo’s nods. Abu Alhaul saw a couple of tears roll down the cheeks of his brother, clearing away days of caked dirt and dust that had accumulated during their trek. Maybe this flight from the Africans was what Mohammed suffered in his flight from Mecca to Medina. Maybe it was Allah’s way to show that he — Abu Alhaul — was the chosen one. His brother’s loyalty was something he never doubted, but his brother’s loyalty was to him, Asim, instead of Allah and Abu Alhaul, His messenger. He loved Abdo, but Abdo tore his heart apart with his lack of reverence to Allah. Love of one’s brother was nothing compared to love of one’s God. Would Allah test him against his brother? He hoped not because he did love Abdo, and to have to prove his love for Allah, he would grieve greatly to lose Abdo.

  The four men stood, unlimbered the firing mechanism, and removed the stops that protected both ends of the canister. Abu Alhaul watched, his face an impassive mask. It was not in his hands whether the missiles worked and carried out Allah’s wishes. It was in the hands of Allah. If they failed, then it was because of his brother’s blasphemy. He stepped back as he realized what he would have to do if the missiles missed. The test of his love
for his brother was at hand sooner than he expected. He shouldn’t be surprised, for Allah demanded tests constantly for it was only the holy who could enter paradise. Abu Alhaul shut his eyes for a moment. The vision of paradise flowed across his thoughts, visions that grew of sweet water, cool breezes, nuts, dates, and a parade of virgins as rewards for the true religion and faith shown in the harsh world of life.

  The four men kneeled.

  “Wait!” Abdo ordered, moving fast for a big man.

  Abu Alhaul opened his eyes. Abdo turned the men so the blasts would be away from them and the other men firing their missiles. What good would it do to shoot down the Americans and kill your selves while doing it? However, Allah expected His servants to die in service to Him.

  Abdo stepped back, reached out, and took Abu Alhaul’s arm. “We need to move away.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re too close to the firing,” Abdo said softly. “These are old missiles, carried for decades from one place to another; always never used because they were too important and irreplaceable. When things are too important to use, eventually they become dangerous.”

  Abu Alhaul allowed his brother to guide him farther from the four kneeling men. He glanced behind him. The four Jihadists stared upward, three of them ignoring the two leaders who opened the distance between them. The fourth stared unabashed, causing Abu Alhaul to wonder what the man was thinking. The man didn’t glance down in respect when their eyes met. What will the others think, he asked himself as he broke eye contact and followed Abdo?

  The noise of the aircraft engines increased. Suddenly a flicker of a shadow crossed over them. Abdo released him and glanced upward. Abu Alhaul looked also. You could see nothing through the canopy, but the sunlight that brightened it had dipped for a moment as the aircraft passed directly between them and the hot African sun.

  “Fire!” his brother shouted at the four men.

  Three of the missiles left their canisters. The fourth lit off but remained inside the canister. One of the missiles rose many feet into the air before suddenly cartwheeling away through the top of the trees and then exploding against one over a hundred meters away. The Jihadist with the misfired canister threw it down and started running. Abdo knocked Abu Alhaul to the ground and covered him with his body.