Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  “Then if you want,” he said, “we could check that out ourselves in a way that would leave your name out of it, okay?”

  “You’d be wasting your time.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” said Aisha.

  Molly told her, “We’ll see what we can do.”

  TWELVE

  Shortly after midnight, West African time, a Liberian patrol boat had put to sea bearing extra fuel and ammunition. In addition to its crew, it carried eight well-armed troopers of the 2nd Liberian Commando.

  It would rendezvous with a helicopter gunship near the coordinates their commander had been given. The gunship was fitted with pontoons. There, as the American, Clew, had insisted, they would wait in the darkness five kilometers distant until the off-loading was completed. They would wait facing into the wind so that the soft wop-wop of the gunship’s idling rotors could not be heard from the freighter.

  The officer put in charge of this interception was a major whose troops called him Scar. The major’s true name was Thomas Mitchell. It was an Irish name, a white man’s name, but the major was African to the roots of his soul. There were many such names in Liberia.

  The major was a man of very personal experience with bands such as the one he intended to ambush. He had once been a student who had hoped to be a doctor. Then a gang of bandits who called themselves rebels mounted a raid on the suburb of Monrovia in which he and his young wife were living. There was little of value for them to take, only some food, a few watches, no weapons. What they wanted most of all were the women.

  He and his wife had almost escaped amid all the shouting and shooting. They had almost reached a thick stand of trees on the edge of a rubber plantation. He was struck by a bullet; it may have been a stray. It entered from behind him just below his right eye and it tore his cheekbone away. His wife screamed as he fell; she was calling for help even though he tried to tell her to be silent. Soon there were men with guns standing over them. They pulled his wife off of him and looked at his face. He heard one of them say, “This one’s finished.” Another one seized his wife by her blouse and threw her onto the ground. He heard that one say, “This one’s mine.”

  That one raped her. He beat her when she tried to resist. Major Scar would always remember her cries, but he could do nothing to help her. He remembered trying to pull himself up. He could barely raise his head by that time. His wife’s cries were of fear but they were not for herself. She was begging them to stop long enough for her to help him. A man who was awaiting his turn with her said, “Shut up. He’s no good to you now.”

  They were not speaking English. Their language was Ibo. They wore combat fatigues with all patches torn off. Nigerian soldiers. Deserters. Now bandits. One of them saw that he was still moving. He said to another, “Go finish him off.” The other one started to pull out his machete, but just then more shooting erupted in the distance. Army troops from the capital were coming. They crouched for a moment and readied their rifles. One said, “Take the woman and let’s go.”

  That was all he remembered. He must have passed out. He later learned that their men raped nearly all of the women. Some they killed when they were done. A few, they took with them. His young wife was among those they forced to go with them for their further entertainment as long as she lasted. He never saw her again.

  When his wound had healed, although it left him disfigured, he joined the army of Charles Taylor. Charles Taylor had been a rebel commander himself, then president, then deposed by new rebel commanders. The new ones, like the old ones, had American names. Their descendants, freed slaves, had been offered this new homeland long before the American civil war. Liberia was Muslim, but they came as Christians. It had been the faith of their former owners and of those who had paid for their passage. Many wore crucifixes pinned to their clothing. It was a good way for them to recognize each other and to set themselves apart from the tribes. The new commanders quickly came to terms with Major Scar lest his unit become the next rebel army. One day, perhaps, the cycle would end.

  When his wound had healed, although it left him disfigured, he joined the army of Charles Taylor. Charles Taylor had been a rebel commander himself, but now he was Liberia’s president. He fought under Charles Taylor for more than five years. Taylor, like Mitchell, was a slave name from America. Their descendants had been freed and had been offered this new homeland long before the American civil war. Liberia was Muslim, but they came as Christians, having kept the faith of their former owners. Many wore crucifixes pinned to their clothing. It was a good way for them to recognize each other and to set themselves apart from the tribes.

  The major’s men addressed him by his proper name and rank, but they called him Major Scar, or simply Scar, among themselves. He didn’t care for that at first. It seemed less than courteous. But his sergeant assured him that no insult was intended. On the contrary, said his sergeant, the men were quite proud to be able to say that they served with Major Scar. Had the major not noticed how many of the men in the 2nd Commando had scars on their cheeks? These were all self-inflicted. They were better than medals or colored berets for letting people know that they were the toughest. This was good because a soldier with that reputation is always looking for the chance to prove that he is the bravest of the brave.

  The sergeant was right. They had many such chances. And during his years with the 2nd Commando, he hunted the men who had taken his wife, their faces burned into his memory. He never found even one. They had melted away. Or more likely, they hadn’t lived very long. Most such bandits lasted only a matter of weeks. Drugged or drunk, and very often diseased, they would soon fall to killing each other or be ambushed by more disciplined troops.

  But others just like them would soon take their places. There was never a shortage of young men who had nothing. No land, no work, and no education. No cause to believe in and therefore no hope. The bandits tell them, “You have nothing because ‘they’ take everything. It is right that we take back what they have stolen.” They’re given guns and they’re given life and death power over any who happen to have anything they want. In short order, any vestige of humanity is lost. That was why the Major Scar saw no point in taking prisoners. Any who surrendered were questioned, then shot, even those who tried to claim that they were forced into service. If that was true, it was true for one day at the most. Until they were given a gun.

  He did not see himself as a brutal man, however. He was good to his troops; he’d had them all learn to read, and each got a share of any contraband they captured. Those shares fed their families. They received little pay. And each was given land that would be theirs forever. That had been his idea and the president embraced it. It gave them a sense that, unlike most other Africans, they had a real nation of their own to defend. Not just tribal lands that are always in dispute. A real nation with real borders, not colonial borders. The oldest true nation in Africa.

  He required them to show due respect to civilians and never to bully or rob them. They knew that if they did so he would punish them with fines. They knew that if they raped he would hang them. Barring that, however, they had no cause to fear him. On the contrary, they made fun of him sometimes, but it was always a good-natured joshing. They made fun because he doted on his beautiful new wife and never stopped bragging about her. Especially now that she was with child. But he had good reason to be proud of her.

  When he met her, she was a Red Cross volunteer who had helped so many families out of misery. She didn’t mind the scar, the big dent in his face, because she had seen so much worse. To this day, she still worked for the Red Cross part time. Full time, she was a teacher at the secondary school that the Red Cross had helped her to set up. The school had a piano and she taught herself to play it. She had tried to teach him, but he had no gift for it. So now she was teaching the children.

  Not a brutal man at all, but he still took no prisoners. He knew that was why he’d been given this assignment. That, and the fact that there were said to be children on the fr
eighter that was bringing these weapons. His general knew that he would see to their safety until the Red Cross could take them.

  His general held the rank of Army Chief of Staff, but he was in command of all the services. His general’s name was Abednego Tubbs and he always wore wonderful uniforms. He wasn’t christened Abednego. His real name was Herbert. Once during a battle he climbed into a tank that had been hit by a rocket and was burning. He used the tank’s guns to drive the enemy off and then he climbed out without so much as a smudge. The no-smudge part was the hardest to believe because he knew burning tanks to be sooty. But something like this had also happened in the bible. The original Abednego was one of the three who some king threw into a fiery furnace. An angel not only kept them from burning, but he got them out with their clothes neatly pressed and the king gave all three of them promotions. The general says his soldiers started calling him Abednego. More likely, he came up with that by himself. It sounded a lot more heroic than Herbert and it suited the painting that he later commissioned of himself on top of that tank.

  He was vain, but a good man. Not especially corrupt. Or at least he didn’t try to enrich himself beyond what seemed reasonable for a man in his position. He would take his proper share, but no more than was fair, of whatever that freighter and its cargo might bring. But not of the weapons. They were not to see land. The general, however, had wavered somewhat at the thought of such profligacy.

  “One is tempted,” said the general, “to capture them intact. We, meaning the army, could either use them ourselves or sell them back to the Americans.”

  “We could, but you’ve given your word, sir.”

  “My word? You speak of honor? Where’s the honor in this? I have agreed to an act of piracy, major.”

  “Piracy, sir? It’s no cruise ship. It’s a smuggler.”

  “You see? You always need the high moral ground. I admire that in you, but we’re not missionaries. Try to leave a little room for give and take.”

  “This man, Clew,” asked the major. “He is powerful? Important?”

  “He has been a valued friend on occasion.”

  “Is it not better, therefore, to nourish that friendship? You can do as he asks or you can do as you wish. Go the one way and this Clew will be in your debt. Go the other and that friendship may be lost.”

  The general grumbled. “Even so, such a waste.”

  “We’ll still have the freighter and its cargo,” said the major.

  The general shrugged. “That is something, I suppose. But those missiles are worth a half million each. We’re to feed them to the fishes? And Mobote’s men with them? This seems more than a little extreme, does it not?”

  “Not extreme, Sir. Simply final. Your friend, Clew, has asked that this matter be handled as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

  The general was still brooding. “It could be more than weapons.”

  “Sir, my orders are to send it all to the bottom, not to start opening crates.”

  “Think a moment,” said the general. “This is Savran Bobik’s shipment. Bobik deals in many things. Mobote and his men like their stimulants, you know.”

  The major understood. He was referring to amphetamines. First heroin to keep them from thinking too much, then amphetamines to wake them from their torpor. “I’ve seen what they do under stimulants, sir.”

  The general nodded gravely. “I know that you have. But such drugs also have a medicinal function. And they were not part of the agreement.”

  “Sir, if you order it, I will search for narcotics. But there will be a fight, and I’m going to have losses. I would need to have that order in writing.”

  The general waved him off. “We’re just thinking aloud.” He said, “Go ahead. Do it your way. Make it final. But when you take that freighter, have it searched top to bottom. List everything you find so that nothing disappears when our own customs officers come aboard.”

  “And if I find other drugs in the rest of the cargo?”

  “Call them medical supplies. I’ll be there to receive them. They’ll be put to good use, I assure you.”

  Major Scar had thought it best to say nothing more. His general, perhaps, intended to sell them. Perhaps the money from the sale would be put to good use or perhaps it would simply disappear. The major decided to spare his general what might be too great a temptation. If he did find drugs, he would bring them in as ordered, but he would first call ahead and speak to his wife. He would see to it that she was on hand to claim them. She and her Red Cross representatives.

  However…first things first. Down to business.

  Mobote’s men appeared in a high-powered trawler that could probably do twenty knots. It was the property, no doubt, of one of many smugglers who trafficked up and down this stretch of coast. The trawler came without lights, but it surely had radar. The radar would pick up the major’s patrol boat, but because it was a full five

  kilometers distant, it should seem to be one of a great many fishing boats that would normally be working these waters at night. To that end, he had the patrol boat rigged with the same working deck lights that the fishing boats used. If the pontooned gunship bobbed in line with the patrol boat, its signature would resemble the rigging for the netting that was common to most of those fishing boats.

  The trawler had slowed almost to a stop before approaching the freighter. They were, no doubt, making radio contact and getting an assurance that all seemed to be well. The major’s radioman searched for the frequency they were using. By the time he found it, it was no longer needed. The trawler had moved forward and tied up to the freighter. In its shadow, the trawler was no longer visible. But soon deck lights came on. The off-loading began. While a crane lowered two heavy pallets of weapons, several boxes were being carried by hand by way of the ship’s boarding ladder.

  The off-loading was efficient. It took less than fifteen minutes. The major watched as the trawler fell away from the freighter and turned its bow toward the coast. When it reached a point more than a kilometer from the freighter, the major gave the signal for the helicopter to rise and to blind the trawler’s crew with its searchlight. His patrol boat sliced through the water, full speed.

  Mobote’s men heard the sounds of both engines before they were able to spot either source. The major saw them scramble, looking this way and that. Most had automatic weapons at the ready. When the searchlight blazed on, most covered their eyes. The major gave the order to fire. His deck gunners started raking the hull with two fifty-caliber machine guns. They aimed at the rudder and the waterline. The helicopter’s gunner began sweeping the decks. Several of Mobote’s men returned fire. Some aimed their weapons at the blazing white light and some at the muzzle flash of the deck guns. Their own fire exposed them. Most were quickly cut down. Several leaped overboard and tried to swim beyond the reach of the searchlight. The trawler was already sinking stern down and was listing sharply to one side.

  The major ordered his patrol boat to circle it slowly. He ordered his gunners not to shoot at the swimmers. They could see to them later. Concentrate on the trawler. He ordered the helicopter crew to break off and proceed to illuminate the deck of the freighter before anything could be thrown into the sea. Only when the trawler began to roll over did he order his men to cease firing. He used his own spotlights to pick out the men who had managed to get off the trawler. He counted seven up-turned faces in all. Some were fearful, some defiant, at least three had been wounded. Of the seven, four were dressed in camouflage fatigues. The other three were either shirtless or in mufti. The latter three would be crew. He looked closely at the faces of those who were in uniform on the chance, however slim, that God would so good as to let him avenge his first wife.

  As before, as always, there were none that he recognized. One of them, with some sort of tattoo on his forehead, did not seem to grasp his disadvantaged situation. He was shouting dire threats using very strong language. He was one of the wounded. He belched blood as he shouted. He tried to raise a pist
ol, but it slipped from his hand because a bullet had taken his thumb off. He only realized it now. He paused to stare in disbelief. The major’s sergeant raised his weapon; he was ready to shoot him, but the major said no, it’s a waste. Let him cling to some wreckage. Let them try to swim to shore. The sharks, by now, would have picked up the blood scent. The sharks would be coming from all sides.

  His radioman said, “Major, the chopper’s reporting. The pilot saw children being dragged out on deck. He says that their hands are tied behind them.”

  “He’s stopped it?”

  “Yes, sir. He fired a burst. But the captain threw something else over the side. It’s a red and white container. He says it’s still floating.”

  “What about the freighter’s crewmen?” he asked. “Are they armed?”

  “The pilot says some were, but they now have their hands up. Their captain was trying to get them to fight, but they don’t seem so eager to die for him.”

  The major said, “Have the chopper hold its station. Tell the pilot that we’ll board in ten minutes.”

  The freighter’s boarding ladder was still down from the off-loading. The major’s patrol boat eased alongside. Five armed soldiers and their sergeant raced up its steps. They preceded the major and a harbor pilot who’d been brought to see the freighter back to port. The soldiers quickly secured the crew that was on deck. They forced them to kneel at the rounded stern railing and gathered the weapons that they’d dropped. They positioned themselves to cover all hatches, sealing in whatever crew might remain. They gathered the children under one of the lifeboats well away from any likely line of fire.

  Major Scar appeared on deck. His face frightened the crew, and that was well, but he saw that it also frightened the children. Most were trembling, some were crying. A few had dropped to their knees in despair or perhaps out of weakness. They were all very thin. Some of the young girls had soiled themselves. Two of them showed signs of having been beaten. He felt sure that they’d endured more than beatings.