Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  Fulbright opened the door. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  Xavier glanced at Embry. “Good night, Lieutenant. Keep me informed if anything else comes in.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Embry said.

  “Ellen, would you stay a moment?” Xavier said as Fulbright started to follow the command duty officer.

  She stopped so suddenly that the legal officer nearly bumped into her.

  “I can take a hint,” said Kilpatrick, stepping back so she could step around him. He pulled the door shut as he left.

  “The Denver is heading this way because it has a full SEAL team complement on board,” Xavier said. “Once the ESG reaches airborne range, they’ll fly the team to us. At the speed Denver is making, the ESG should be within air range in two days.”

  “Kind of late to help, isn’t it? If this operation that’s not an operation goes awry, we’ve been forbidden to try to rescue them.”

  Xavier nodded. “Wasn’t it John Wayne in The Sands of Iwo Jima that said, ‘Life’s a bitch, and then you die’?”

  Fulbright smiled, her eyes wide, eyebrows arched. “Sir—I don’t understand, Skipper. What’s so funny? This is very serious, I think.”

  “It’s not only serious, Ellen, it’s preposterous that we’re sending untrained people to do a job that they will most likely fail. On top of that, we tell them that regardless of whether they’re successful or not, they are acting without orders.” He screwed the top back on the water and set the bottle on his desk. “I can’t recall us ever having done this while I’ve been on active duty; but I do know that we military types are hung out to dry more times than we want to think by politicians more concerned with their power and spin.”

  “Politics is one profession that could use a higher unemployment rating.”

  He laughed. “Very good, Ellen.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  “Enter.”

  The door opened and it was Lieutenant Embry again. “Captain, we have contact with the helicopter. It’s approaching the recovery area now, sir.”

  “XO, I can’t stay here and wait. Let’s go to Combat.” He reached behind him and grabbed his water.

  Three minutes later they were in Combat, waiting to hear good news. He pulled himself up into the captain’s chair, his face half hidden by the blue lights. The air conditioning in the electronics-laden room was at least ten degrees cooler than his stateroom. To Xavier’s right, the air traffic controller mumbled instructions into her mouthpiece. Without asking, he presumed she was talking over the internal communications system and not to the helicopter. He reached up to the speaker mounted directly forward on an overhead beam. Xavier touched the switch to make sure it was on broadcast. It was. If she had been talking to the helicopter, he would have heard the replies broadcast through the speaker.

  Xavier settled back and tried to relax. A good thing about military life is it teaches patience. You hurry to wherever you have to go and once there you wait. It didn’t matter if it was to mount an amphibious landing or stand in queue for your meal. “Hurry up and wait” was a military mantra.

  He hoped he’d have a chance to visit with the skipper of the Denver when the ship reached their operational area. He smiled and looked down for a moment. It would be best for everyone involved if Tucker Raleigh and his Seabees were back onboard before the Denver arrived.

  “Alpha Tango, Foxtrot Charlie; we’re ten miles from zone; descending to cherubs two.”

  Two hundred feet, Xavier said to himself. Some of those trees out there are that tall.

  “Roger, Foxtrot Charlie; notify when on final.”

  “I am on final, Alfa Tango.” Two clicks followed.

  Things are going too smoothly with this mission, Xavier thought, although he had no intelligence out there to even tell him if they had been successful. What little intelligence sources the United States had had been tied up around Indonesia. Because of the close-hold secrecy, he couldn’t even ask European Command for Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two’s EP-3E aircraft that sat on the apron at the Monrovian airport to fly a mission providing force protection for the team. You never know how important information is until you lose it or it’s unavailable. If he even had some members of Naval Security Group Command on board, he’d feel better; but he had nothing but radar, electronic warfare—mostly useless in a low-tech war—and the eyes of the helicopter pilots. So, Xavier Bennett—future admiral and Commander, Amphibious Group Two—leaned forward listening to the soft chatter in the Combat Information Center and sorted through his thoughts of the paucity of alternatives he had if this mission failed. The problem was that he lacked options that did not conflict with his orders. Orders were obeyed, unless you wielded the power and influence so you could quasi-violate them, and then everyone would say what a great and wonderful person you were. He wasn’t one of those people. He was Xavier Bennett, and in comparison to Admiral Dick Holman, he was a child in the game of high-stakes politics.

  He leaned back and shut his eyes, thinking about tomorrow’s lunch with Commander Troy Harrison.

  “Alpha Tango, Foxtrot Charlie; we’re descending for pickup.”

  “Any signs of your passengers, Foxtrot Charlie?”

  “Not at this—” Static broke up the transmission.

  The ATC called several times, attempting to reestablish contact, before telling Lieutenant Embry that the helicopter had descended below radio contact altitude.

  Xavier lifted his water and took another drink. He hoped the helicopter had just descended below radio line-of-sight communications. The cold air condensing on his sweaty T-shirt and skivvies chilled him slightly. There was nothing to do but wait.

  CHAPTER 12

  TUCKER GENTLY PUSHED ASIDE THE BUSHES, REVEALING A gun barrel six inches from his nose.

  “Oh, it’s you, sir,” Brute said, lowering the barrel.

  Tucker pulled himself into the small clearing. “Shhhh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips.

  He stood, forcing his way quietly through the leafy canopy that stretched over the small clearing. He reached up and adjusted the night vision device, which was jarred slightly by the brush. He blinked twice as his eyesight adjusted. Tucker scanned the back trail. Somewhere behind them were the Legionnaires. The voices heard earlier were no longer audible. That didn’t mean much. They could be moving with no talk among themselves, or the wind may have changed, carrying the voices in another direction.

  He ran his tongue over his lower lip and was rewarded with bits of vegetation. Tucker turned his head until he felt a change of wind across the wetness. He raised his left hand and glanced at the GPS readout. The light night wind was blowing southeast. It had changed direction slightly, so whispered words by the French would ride the wind away from them.

  They were out there. He knew the Legion too well to think they wouldn’t be. He’d heard them earlier, and, though he didn’t speak German, he’d spent enough time with German forces in Afghanistan to recognize the language.

  The French Foreign Legion was made up of foreigners who joined with a promise of a French passport when they finished their service obligation. The other attraction was its soldiers were never investigated to ascertain whether the name under which they enlisted was truly their own or not. Whatever their past, whatever their transgressions, everything was discarded, ignored, when they joined the French Foreign Legion. It was a chance to erase a life that had become too much to live and to start over. Many a Legionnaire finished his service to France and settled within its borders to start a new life. Conversely, many found the Legion the home they never had and grew to love the adventure and challenges of Legion life. They stayed and moved slowly up the enlisted ranks with no opportunity to become an officer. Officers within the Legion were French citizens. French military professionals, who, unlike draftees forbidden by French law to ever leave the country of France, were sometime during their career assigned overseas. The French army officer corps was much like the American in which to
rise in rank you fought to get certain performance and duty blocks checked. Overseas duty was an important one if a French officer ever hoped to wear the trappings of General.

  Tucker enjoyed working with the Legionnaires, even if the officers were for the most part pompous asses. The soldiers who made up the Legion were as ferocious in combat as they were in partying. He had conducted search-and-engagement operations with them in Somalia and Aden. This was his first time as an object of a Legionnaire search. He had little doubt that if the Legion caught up to them, it would become an engagement.

  He glanced back at the ambushers. They had looked African to him. They were still in the same ambush profile alongside the trail. If it wasn’t for the minute turn of their heads or the slight shuffle when they shifted their bodies, he might have thought they were dead—as if some sort of African warning you saw in some of the older movies. Probably some of Abu Alhaul’s terrorists. This was another morsel to throw to the intelligence officers and let them try to figure out how Tucker and his team of Seabees came to be trapped between Abu Alhaul ahead and Legionnaires closing the gap behind them.

  They were outnumbered. He had to do something to turn this situation to their advantage. Tucker turned his head slowly to the right, searching the terrain for any new presence. He’d be as blind as the Africans, if it weren’t for these PVS monocles. How did Special Forces ever survive without these things?

  Satisfied he had a picture of what confronted them, Tucker withdrew into the bush, a light rustle following as the branches closed over his head.

  Ricard lay across the clearing, his M-4 pointing into the brush toward the trail as if expecting someone to follow them. Brute squatted on huge haunches on the far side, his weapon across his chest. The man never showed an expression, but Tucker knew all he had to do was point at him to discover what the Seabee was thinking. Unconsciously, Tucker tightened his hand around the stock of the Carbine and held the other hand close to his pants leg.

  Master Chief Collins slid across brush, lifting himself slightly over Ricard’s outstretched legs. “What now, sir?” he whispered.

  Tucker reached over and tapped Ricard on the calf, motioning him over. The bushes shook slightly as Ricard shifted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He crossed his legs over his thighs. Brute dropped to his knees and knee-walked the few steps to where Tucker squatted. To Tucker, it sounded as if the bushes were rattling, screaming to the terrorists and Legionnaires their location.

  He held his hand up and listened for a moment as everyone held their position and remained quiet. After a few seconds, he whispered his intentions, hoping they grasped his meaning. The wind blew toward the Legionnaires. When it was blowing his direction, he had caught their voices. He didn’t want them to have the same luck.

  Tucker gave them specific instructions as to what they were to do once the shooting started. He pointed west and told them they were to head in that direction for ten minutes and then cut left to recover the trail. Regardless of how much turmoil and confusion Tucker sowed, the only opportunity to reach the pickup point in time to catch their ride was to regain the trail. That meant circumventing the terrorists ahead and slowing down the Legionnaires behind them. Once the Legionnaires figured out how many they were chasing, they would pick up the pace, and there was little doubt they’d catch up with them. The question would be whether to fight and die, or suffer through the embarrassment and allow the Legionnaires to capture them.

  TUCKER LEFT THEM IN THE CLEARING. HE CRAWLED BACK through the brush toward where they departed the trail. He pushed the last group of limbs apart, saw the trail, and quietly let the limbs close together, creating a hiding place close to, but out of sight of the trail. It was important for the Legionnaires to believe he was on the trail and this was close enough for it.

  He turned and crawled several yards back along his path, certain now that he had his location mapped. Something bit him on the neck, but the slight pain was quick and gone. Mosquito, he thought. Experience kept him from slapping the annoying insect. He twitched his neck a couple of times as he moved and continued on, ignoring the momentary distraction. He glanced at his watch and the GPS readout. Thirty-five minutes to make the clearing if they hoped to fly out instead of walk. The GPS showed slightly over a mile to the landing zone. A mile was good as a foot, if they didn’t start moving shortly.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the sounds of the jungle. Several seconds passed before Tucker recognized the quiet disturbance caused by people trying to move quietly. A lesser-experienced SEAL would even miss the sound. Boots weren’t the greatest footwear for hiding movement. They make different sounds when crashing through grasses, running across sand, and scrambling up hills. Tucker heard the slight sounds of twigs breaking. Bushes sprung back as bodies passed—the noise told him the people making the noise were approaching. A grunt rode the wind for a moment. If he hadn’t known the Legionnaires were there, he might have confused the man-made noise with one of the wild pigs in the area. He couldn’t know for sure, but the cacophony of twigs breaking, bushes springing, and the occasional grunts caused him to estimate the number following to be at least twenty. There could be more, but twenty was more than enough to overrun Tucker and his team.

  Tucker took a deep breath and started to switch the Carbine to automatic, but thought better of it because he still had to stand and expose himself; when he did, it meant crashing through the canopy of vines and leaves overhead. He’d be pissed with himself if the weapon discharged unexpectedly. Even more pissed if he accidentally shot himself. He’d never hear the end of it from his fellow SEALs, if he lived. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be around to listen to their laughter, and the last thing he wanted was for his name to go down in history as a SEAL sea tale told during bouts of heavy drinking to entertain each other.

  Estimating the distance to someone from you by sound only is extremely hard guesswork. It’s even harder when those you’re trying to locate are trying just as hard to hide their presence.

  Once he crashed through the canopy above him, if the Legionnaires had night vision devices—and it would be a surprise if they didn’t—they would see him. Maybe he’d just ease up through the canopy and take a looksee before jumping up and firing only to discover no one was there. He intended to fire over their heads. Even when allies spied on each other, they didn’t kill each other. So far, no deaths—and he wanted to keep it that way.

  Tucker discounted the terrorists behind him. He knew from briefings at the ship that Abu Alhaul wasn’t equipped with night vision devices. Here they were in the middle of the night in pitch-black jungle and the most valuable weapon in his arsenal was the night vision device. More valuable right now to him than knowing what weapons the two groups possessed. What he did know was that both the terrorists and the French were after his team. A team currently pinned between them. What he hoped was that neither the ambushers ahead nor the French coming up behind knew about the other. He eased through the bush overhead, using his left hand to push aside the foliage. His head broke through, and leaves and brush enveloped him, leaving only his shoulders and above exposed. He tugged his M-4 Carbine up until it cleared the brush.

  Then he waited, glad he hadn’t pulled a “John Wayne” and leaped up firing. It would have been more of a “ Keystone Kops,” if he had. The ambushers were still there, but he could see no sign of the French.

  Each minute reduced their chances of making the rendezvous. Tucker was about to forego his plan, return to the others, and attempt to sneak by the terrorists. They must be terrorists. Terrorists would wait until the right opportunity to give their lives in pursuit of having their photograph plastered on some mud wall of a nondescript hut attesting to their martyrdom.

  As he was beginning to ease himself back into the cover of the brush, an image of a pursuer flickered across his PVS. As if on cue, others quickly emerged into vision range. Tucker assessed those he saw, aware that their weapons were being held at the ready across their chests.
He saw that none of the men had backpacks. That meant they didn’t come prepared for a long chase, which meant if this ruse failed, there was a chance the Legionnaires would turn back. On the other hand, Tucker and the others had light backpacks, and with the exception of Brute, who carried the laser stuff, he and the others could discard theirs if they had to. They had an opportunity, if this worked, to outpace the Legionnaires, and with luck, the Legionnaires would take care of the terrorists. He believed they would stop anyway, if they engaged and killed what Tucker thought were terrorists. The Legionnaires would think the terrorists attacked the French airfield. Of course, eventually, the French would realize some of their technology was missing, but by then it would be too late.

  He remained motionless, knowing his head would be easily visible to the French night vision devices, but moving it would bring immediate attention to him. His Carbine rested on top of the leaves surrounding him, pointed in the direction of the Legionnaires. Once the Legionnaires saw him, they would shoot. Legionnaires weren’t known for warning their targets.

  He wanted them to see him, but he didn’t want them shooting him. Tucker figured the Legionnaires would also see the ambushers and presume Tucker was part of the group. That was what he wanted.

  The lead Legionnaire held up his hand, fingers spread, and then he held the hand up again with two fingers. Seven, the man was telling those behind him.

  Seven? Tucker’s trigger finger tightened on the trigger. He casually lifted the Carbine without raising it so high that it separated from the bush. If the Legionnaire spotted the weapon, then shooting would start.

  Seven? No way Tucker could have missed two. He wanted to turn his head and take his own count, but the lead Legionnaire pointed to the left side of the trail, marking the ambushers. Tucker counted with him. As the man pointed, Legionnaires began to melt into the surrounding brush. Tucker couldn’t stay here long or they’d have him surrounded. How would the administration explain that when his lovely face appeared on television?