Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  Lieutenant Willis, who had been trailing Holman since the head, slowed slightly to give the two admirals comfortable distance to talk freely. Holman noticed and thought, Maybe I’ll keep him as my EA.

  “I do have some Seabees disembarking at Harper, Liberia, off the Mesa Verde,” Holman offered, trying to see what James would propose. Seabees may have some combat training, but they weren’t Marines or SEALs. They built things.

  Instead of turning down Holman’s half-suggestion, Holman was surprised to hear James discussing the combat training Navy Seabees go through. James further offered that, with the exception of Navy SEALs and EOD, the Seabees were the only other group who received combat training en masse. Granted, Seabees were not trained in covert operations, but at a minimum they knew which end of the gun the bullet came out, which was more than most sailors.

  “Good idea, Dick. Damn,” James said as they reached the “A” ring, “wish I’d thought of it.”

  “My idea!? I didn’t say I would use Seabees. You told me they could be used. And even if I accept your logic, Duncan, they’d still need a Navy SEAL to lead them.”

  The two exited into the open garden center of the Pentagon, commonly referred to as “ground zero,” a term left over from the Cold War days when rumor had it that the Soviets had a missile aimed directly for the center of the open space. Standing to the right of the two men were several Navy captains and a couple of Army colonels, all smoking cigars. Holman patted his pocket and for a brief second nearly excused himself to join the officers. Even from here, it was apparent from the laughter and body language that the men were close friends. Probably the Ground Zero cigar club he’d encountered last time here. Looks as if they have some new members. Wonder if they have temporary memberships?

  “I said, what are you going to do?” James asked.

  “Sorry, Duncan, I was just thinking—”

  “—how good a cigar would be right about now?”

  The two laughed as they continued walking across the open space.

  They walked through the arch leading to corridor four. Holman glanced at the number above his head. This was the corridor where American Airlines flight 77 entered the Pentagon “E” ring on its deathly journey on September 11, 2001. Things had changed a lot since then.

  “Look, Dick. I’m going to leave you here. I’ll detach two teams to you from somewhere. The USS Detroit is doing an around-the-world show of the flag during its return to its homeport of San Diego. We have SEALs on board. I’ll contact Commander, Special Warfare Group One in San Diego and have them shift two teams to you when their Expeditionary Strike Group rounds South Africa. They won’t be there before you execute the mission, but if things go to shit, you might be able to use them. At least they’ll give you additional options.”

  “Thanks, Duncan,” Holman said, shaking hands with his friend. “Get them to me as soon as you can.”

  As they shook hands, Duncan leaned close. “There is one other thing I’m going to do. I am going to relieve Commander Tucker Raleigh as a Navy SEAL. It’ll be a good way to circumvent protocol. I’ll draft a letter telling him something about his wounds making him unfit. I’ll also call him and explain the rationale. Tucker is a player. He’ll understand. May not be happy, but he’ll understand. If this goes off well, then we’ll return him to full duty. This way, we avoid asking for presidential authority.”

  “That would help immensely, having Raleigh in charge. Can you have him report to Captain Xavier Bennett, commanding officer of the Mesa Verde? Since this is such a super-secret quagmire they’re sending our way, I guess he’ll be the commander of this ‘Joint Task Force France,’ for lack of a better operational title.”

  “We both know that if we do well and succeed we’ll never hear a word about it; but if we fail, they’ll hang our asses out to cover theirs.”

  Holman laughed as he dropped James’s hand. “Damn, Duncan, I never would have figured that out if you hadn’t told me.”

  Duncan James slapped him on the shoulder. “You take care, my friend. By the way, I wouldn’t use ‘Joint Task Force France’ as my operational title. Doesn’t sound too meaty, if you know what I mean.”

  Holman grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to.”

  He looked toward the end of the corridor where the faint sound of rotors could be heard. “Guess I’ll use my trip back to Little Creek to think about this problem.”

  “Think hard, my friend,” Duncan James replied. He winked before turning on his heels and heading up a nearby staircase to an upper level. Someone entered the Pentagon from the door leading to the helo pad. Holman’s nose wrinkled from the smell of exhaust that followed the Army colonel who saluted as she passed.

  Thirty minutes later, Holman was strapped into the web seating of the CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter. He leaned against the vibrating fuselage as the helicopter lifted off from the Pentagon helo pad and turned south to take him to Little Creek Amphibious Base. He shut his eyes. Commander Tucker Raleigh had saved America from an attack only months ago, and now Holman was going to ask him to risk his life again. If there were any other way, he’d do it. The man had suffered enough in this ongoing war on terrorism, but when duty calls, you can’t use “get out of jail free” cards from your past exploits. Duty expects you rise to the occasion, surge forward, and do your best. If your best fails, then a grateful nation will send another.

  Of course, that’s easy to say—easy to envision. Holman was the one who was going to have to explain to Rear Admiral select Xavier Bennett why Seabees would do a SEAL mission. He had no doubt the Seabees would do it; it was just they weren’t trained to muck silently about in the jungles. They were trained to build and fight; if necessary to do both at the same time. “Joint Task Force France”—sounds like a bunch of sailors dating a barmaid.

  CHAPTER 6

  “THEY WANT ME TO DO WHAT?” COMMANDER TUCKER Raleigh said, his voice rising. “That’s bullshit, Skipper. You’re telling me to jump in a helo four hours from now with three Seabees—who have no idea how in the hell to survive in a Special Forces–type operation—traipse up to an aircraft, dash into it, rip out some sort of technology— stolen weapon or whatever gadget it is—and return here safely?” He lifted his hands above his head. “I can’t imagine anyone believing there may be something wrong with this scenario!”

  Tucker took a couple of steps to the right, reversed his pace, and walked back to where he originally stood. He dropped his hands by his side. Shaking his head slowly, he thought, Who in the hell came up with this brilliant idea? It had to be some desk jockey in Washington; someone who’s never been in harm’s way to come up with this Keystone Cop of an idea!

  If Bennett’s in-port stateroom had been bigger, Tucker would have continued pacing back and forth. “This is ludicrous,” he mumbled. “Not to mention it’s most likely a one-way trip.” He turned to Bennett. “Captain, just because they blew up my home and I don’t have anything to go back to doesn’t mean I’m expendable.”

  Captain Xavier “Harry” Bennett motioned downward with his right hand. “I know how you feel, Commander Raleigh. I’m not happy with the orders either, but let’s not exaggerate. Admiral Holman is as concerned as you and I are. As to where this mission originated, I can only speculate, but it definitely was outside the Pentagon.”

  “I wish I was exaggerating,” he said. Captain Bennett seemed like a nice guy, but what would a Surface Warfare officer know about SEAL operations? Dangerous enough when a team was forced periodically to take a non-SEAL with them because of a person’s special talents, but for one SEAL to take three untrained, untried, and unknown sailors into hostile territory! Abu Alhaul hadn’t succeeded in killing him, but his own bosses may be more successful.

  He turned and walked toward the bulkhead, stopping at the porthole to look across the small port of Harper, Liberia. His mind raced over the unexpected mission and concerns with how in the hell he was going to do it without getting himself and whoever went with him killed. He didn’t mind
going into the field, doing the covert shit SEALs could handle, but someone somewhere apparently had not one iota of an idea how to work up for those missions.

  Cool air from the ship’s air conditioning system blew from the vent above his head. Directly outside the porthole, three sailors, hand over hand, tugged at the pulley lines, slowly bringing the portable stand up from the side of the ship. Once even with the deck, they began to crawl over the safety lines, toting paint buckets along with them. Tucker thought, You don’t drive up to the front gate, step out of a cab, and sneak into a facility!

  He watched the scene outside the porthole without really seeing it; his mind was elsewhere. The petty officer in charge cradled plastic bottles of water in his right elbow and handed the first sailor a bottle. The first sailor flopped down on the deck, using a dirty towel to wipe the sweat from his face. As the others crawled back onto the main deck, the petty officer handed each a bottle before they eased themselves onto the deck. Tucker watched the short tableau of ship’s work, sweat rolling down faces onto already soaked T-shirts yellowed by the labor over the side of the ship. The late-afternoon humid heat of Africa sucked moisture like some invisible vampire from those who lingered topside too long. The petty officer was speaking while those on the deck nodded, with the exception of one sailor who appeared to be arguing with him. The others laughed, raising hands to slap high-fives among them. Tucker didn’t need to hear the words of the sailors to have a good idea what they were saying. The petty officer also laughed and opened his own bottle of water.

  Forty-eight hours ago Tucker was on an Air Force C-141 flying into Monrovia supposedly to discuss the training of select soldiers within retired Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston’s new Liberian army so they could do a Special Forces–type mission. Complicating his own mission was trying to find out how much of his household goods were destroyed in the bombing of his home. The house was gone; that he knew. Other people have fires and floods, but not him—no, he had to have his own devil chasing him with gunfire and bombs. He briefly touched his left shoulder. If the bullet from the first time had been two inches lower and slightly left, he wouldn’t be here today, and his organs would be living inside other people. I wonder if Abu Alhaul would have chased them down to make sure every bit of Tucker Raleigh was dead? He hoped that someone had called Allegheny Power and Washington Gas and told them to turn off the utilities. Be just his luck to return and discover hundreds of dollars in bills accumulating to run a destroyed house.

  He had expected Admiral James to allow him to return to take care of this catastrophe, but instead of heading back to the States, he stood in the stateroom of the skipper of the USS Mesa Verde listening to some God-forsaken plan. Well, that’s one way for the Navy to get out of paying him for the household goods destroyed in the bombing. Get himkilled. And his homeowner’s insurance hadn’t been much help. The agent had almost sounded happy as he told Tucker, “I’m really sorry, Commander, but if you read your homeowner’s insurance, you’ll see we are unable to cover acts of terrorism.” Nor sinkholes, nor earthquakes, nor floods, but if someone breaks in and steals your groceries, they’d be jolly on the spot with a claims adjuster to prorate the estimate.

  The sailor who had been jawing with the supervisor of the working party stood and grabbed another liter of bottled water from beneath the porthole. Tucker couldn’t see the container, but the sailor ran his hand over the outside of the bottle, gathering flakes of ice in his hand, before rubbing it across his face. Then he ran his tongue across dry lips.

  The sun broke from behind the stanchion to the east, the heat almost palatable as rays burst through the porthole, a more intense glare off the waters of the harbor adding to the heat. Tucker turned away from the sailors on the deck and back to Captain Xavier Bennett, lifting the bottle of water Bennett’s aide had given him earlier.

  The reed-thin skipper of the amphibious ship Mesa Verde leaned against the metal desk in his in-port cabin. The taller Surface Warfare officer had his arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankle, watching passively. Bennett had said he and Admiral Holman agreed with his bleak assessment, but Tucker really had no way of knowing if the disbelief expressed by Captain Bennett was truly accurate. Even if it was, they couldn’t be as concerned as he was—they didn’t have to go into the field. They could sit back here and commiserate all they wanted; they didn’t have to dodge the bullets. All they had to do was make the decision.

  Neither could Tucker know the acrimony with which Bennett reacted when he received the orders. Though Bennett and Holman were professional friends, it finally had reached the point where Admiral Holman had to order the Naval Academy officer to accept and execute his orders. At that point, Bennett stood straight, acknowledged the order with a vocal “aye aye, sir,” and hung the telephone up after assuring Holman he would keep him informed.

  “Is this some plan to lure Abu Alhaul out into the open, sir?” Tucker asked softly. “It’s not like it’s unknown intelligence that the man has a hard-on for me just because I blew up his wife and children—unintentionally—because at the time I was trying to kill him.”

  A knock on the stateroom door drew both their attention.

  “I don’t think so, Commander Raleigh. Enter!” Bennett shouted at the door.

  “The Navy used me as bait once, sir. I’m not opposed to it. If using me brings Abu Alhaul out of hiding and gives us a chance to kill his ass then I’m willing to be bait. I’d just like to know about it first.”

  Tucker looked over his shoulder. The Marine sentry had stepped inside the compartment and was holding the door open. The commanding officer of the Navy Mobile Construction Battalion-133 stepped inside while the Marine stepped out and shut the door. Tucker nodded at the sandy-haired commander wearing battle-dress utilities.

  “Captain, you sent for me, sir?” Klein asked.

  “Teddy, this is Tucker Raleigh.” As the two shook hands, Bennett continued. “I won’t go into details as to his initial mission in Liberia, but a couple of hours ago we received a change in operational orders. He is going to need two—”

  “Three, sir,” Tucker interrupted.

  “Three of your people to give him a hand.”

  Klein smiled. “Should be no problem, sir.” He nodded at Tucker. “What is it you need built, Commander?” Klein reached up and lightly tapped the SEAL emblem over Tucker’s left pocket. “We specialize in helping anyone, especially you SEALs. My people can throw a barracks up in hours or build you a landing strip in a day.” He held up one finger. He was suddenly a salesman working his pitch. “And, outdoor heads or latrines are part of the package—two seaters so you’ve got someone to chat with if you forgot reading material. Newspapers and toilet tissue will be your responsibility, of course.”

  “Not exactly what I need.” Tucker paused for a second. “Your people good at building hospitals?”

  “I suppose it’s something like that covert camp we built for you people last year in Ethiopia?”

  Tucker chuckled, shaking his head. “You have no idea, my friend, what’s going to be asked of you.”

  Klein turned to Captain Bennett.

  Tucker looked at Bennett and smiled. “Captain, I believe the pleasure is all yours, sir.”

  Klein turned his head toward Tucker. “Whatever you want constructed, my battalion can do it.”

  “I think deconstructed might be a better word,” he replied, wondering about the small feeling of comradeship he felt. Maybe it was the wariness registering in Klein’s face. Yeah, this could be the only highlight of the day— finding someone else who feels the same way I do.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. In hours, he was going to be helo’ ing with a group of sailors—sailors whose combat skills and bush qualities were uncertain. If they came back alive, it would be because of luck on their side and shitty professionalism on the French side. Anything could happen. Not to mention this “jack-in-the-box” terrorist who blew up his new home and kept trying to kill him. Oh! An
d don’t forget the African National Army that intelligence was still trying to decide whether it truly existed or was just a rabble of rioters looting the countryside. He glanced out the porthole again, listening as Bennett explained to Commander Klein what was going to happen. Tucker smiled every time he heard Klein’s exclamations of disbelief.

  At least it was a nice day. When they arrived later near this covert French military airport some thirty plus miles from the Liberia border, it would be near midnight. Oh, yes, Skipper, don’t forget to tell him how far we’re going tobe from backup if this goes downhill. Tucker shifted left slightly so the sun hit him squarely in the face. He shut his eyes. Somewhere on this floating hulk of gray, the ship’s young intelligence officer was rounding up some satellite photographs of the airfield and printing them some charts. The charts he’d need if they were forced to work their way back cross-country. He shook his head. Alone, he probably stood a chance. A chance if he was only reconnoitering. Escorting a bunch of untrained Seabees heightened the odds in favor of the French.

  Bennett straightened up, uncrossing his arms and legs, to face the two men. Tucker heard the movement, opened his eyes, and turned around, stepping forward out of the patch of sunlight.

  The happy face Commander Klein had when he entered the compartment had melted like a candle in the African sunlight. I know what’s going through your mind, my fine Seabee friend. Tucker’s ire over the mission was diminishing as his thoughts turned to how to accomplish it once inserted. The other thoughts were on how they were going to survive long enough to be picked up.

  “. . . and that’s about it, Commander,” Bennett finished. The captain held his hands out to the side. “Any questions?”

  Klein raised his head. A slight smile crossed his lips. He stretched his neck and looked quickly around the compartment as if searching for something.

  “Sir, is there a camera here?” A forced laugh came from Klein as he waved his finger at the two unsmiling men. “I was warned by my boss to beware of Surface Warfare humor. Having a SEAL here could make this almost believable. If it wasn’t that what you propose is, I believe, a violation of the Geneva Convention, I’d have bitten.” He bent down and looked under the desk for a hidden camera, craning his neck so he could see around Bennett’s legs. “My boss said SWO humor was somewhat disgusting and sordid. I didn’t believe him. I definitely owe him an apology when I get back to Gulfport.”