Hunt the Leopard

by Don Mann

  When he finished, his men jumped up and down and shouted “Allahu Akbar!” Then the Leopard went down the line inspecting each girl as an aide with a submachine gun over his shoulder held a flashlight. When he stopped in front of Chichima, he ran a hand over the white braids on the top of her head. Then he made a comment, which someone translated into Igbo.

  He said: “You look like something made in Japan.”

  His comment made her feel ashamed, which surprised her.

  The Leopard spoke again and an aide translated: “Allah curses the one who attaches false hair and the one who has this done. Who has done this? Is she here?”

  Chichima shook her head. She was protecting Navina, who had given her the alternating black and white braids.

  The next morning Chichima had been awakened by two women holding her head down. A third sheared her hair off with a razor. Afterward, as she fought back tears, one of the women wrapped a turban around her head.

  She asked, “Are you crying because you’re upset, or happy?”

  Chichima refused to answer.

  “You should be happy because you have been rescued from a false life.”

  “My life isn’t false.”

  “You will learn, and with Boko Haram you will enjoy more gifts, and good sex.”

  Chichima shuddered. The idea of sex with one of the killers and kidnappers made her sick to her stomach. She vowed to kill herself first.

  The lead Mi-35P flew south to northeast along the Cameroon border. Crocker and the other SEALs crouched near windows peering through the dark swirling mist. Akil grabbed Crocker’s shoulder and pointed to eleven o’clock.

  “There they are, boss!”

  “Where?”

  Akil handed him a pair of Steiner 10x50 low-light binoculars.

  Crocker made out a hill that sloped to a clearing and a line of trees to the west.

  “What am I looking for?” he asked.

  “Focus on the line of trees. Under the canopy you should be able to make out the sides of three trucks.”

  Crocker found them. “Check.”

  Then he leaned forward into Major Martins’s ear and shouted. “There they are! There! You see them, Major?”

  The major had his own pair of low-light binos hanging from a leather cord around his neck. But his attention was now focused on the handheld radio he held up to his ear. He was saying, “Sir…Sir…Yes, sir. Yes, of course…”

  “Major, look. It’s important.”

  He waved Crocker away.

  “Who is he talking to?” Akil asked.

  “HQ, probably,” Crocker shouted back. He leaned in to Major Martins and spoke into his free ear, “Tell them, we need air support…reinforcements. Tell them to alert the Cameroonians. We’ve got the arms dealers in our sights. If we act fast we can trap both them and Boko Haram!”

  Martins continued into the radio, “Sir…Yes, sir…”

  “Major, please…”

  “Boss! Hey, Boss…”

  It was Mancini, his big paw on Crocker’s shoulder, his dark eyes glowing red from the reflected lights of the instrument panel.

  “What?”

  “Crocodile Two has done an about-face!”

  “What’s that mean?” It was hard to hear clearly with all the noise.

  “It’s turned around and looks like it’s headed west, back to base.”

  Crocker squeezed between the seats occupied by Major Martins and Lieutenant Peppie, both men talking excitedly into radios. The racket inside the helo was intense—wind buffeting the sides, men shouting, the engine roaring and whining.

  Practically nose to nose with Mancini, he shouted, “What’d you say?”

  Manny shouted back, “The second helicopter is turning back! Back to base!” He gestured with his arm.

  Crocker turned back to look, but this wasn’t a car with a rearview mirror. He scurried over on his knees to one of the side windows. “What the fuck…Why?”

  He still couldn’t spot the second helo. A flying branch glanced off the bulletproof bubble up front. The pilot shouted a warning in Igbo.

  Mancini shrugged. “Maybe it got hit.”

  “Croc Two got hit?”

  “Don’t know. It turned around. That’s all I know…It’s going back!”

  Crocker pivoted to the major to his left. Was practically in his face.

  “Bad news,” Major Martins declared. “Colonel Nwosu has ordered us to return to base!”

  Colonel Ajala Nwosu was the commander of all of Nigeria Special Forces. Crocker and his men had met him briefly after they landed in the capital city, Abuja, roughly two weeks ago. A big man, tall, broad-shouldered, who carried himself more like a bank executive than a soldier.

  “No!”

  “It’s an order.”

  “Let me speak to him,” offered Crocker.

  “Too late, sir…Too late.”

  “Call him back. Call him back now!”

  “We live by rules, sir. In our military, orders from HQ must be obeyed!”

  Crocker wasn’t sure about that. Meanwhile Lieutenant Peppie was engaged in a big shouting match with the pilot. Seemed as though the pilot was ready to heed the Colonel’s order, and Peppie had lost patience with his Nigerian colleagues and was having none of it.

  Crocker heard him scream, “Ee e!”—(no!)—“Gaa n’hi!”—(continue forward).

  The pilot banked the helicopter to the west.

  Neither Crocker nor Akil nor any of the other SEALs could follow the argument between them, arteries standing out on both men’s necks. Major Martins joined in, pointing a finger in Peppie’s face and shouting.

  A gust of wind hit the side of the helo, pushing the nose north and down. Out of the front, Crocker saw the clearing to the left. Felt the helo tilt right.

  “Buckle in! Buckle in!” he shouted as the engines whined higher.

  Akil was at the left window peering through Steiner 10x50 low-lights. Shouted, “Boss, there’s a road up ahead. Must be the road in from Cameroon. Yeah…We can land along there and make an assault on the trucks. I make out three. Maybe four!”

  Crocker wanted to see for himself, but needed to deal with Major Martins first.

  “Major…Major! This is the moment…This is what we came for! We’ve got the enemy where we want them!”

  Akil shouted, “It’s got to be the arms from Cameroon. If we do it right, we can grab them and the Bokos all at once!”

  “Major! Listen, Major, this is your chance to stop them. You’ll be a hero. Now is the time to act!”

  “No! Impossible!” Martins shouted over his shoulder, then turned and addressed the pilot in Igbo. The engine grew louder, the rotors tilted, the helo nose angled sharply up and right.

  Crocker couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Martins by the arm. Was so in his face, he could make out the capillaries in his eyes. “You’re making a big mistake!”

  “Please, stop shouting!”

  “I’m here to advise. I’m giving you my best advice!”

  “No more.”

  Lieutenant Peppie was practically on top of the console, between the pilot and copilot, shouting hysterically at both of them. The pilot pivoted and used his right arm to shove Peppie back.

  Crocker saw the pilot’s elbow smash into Peppie’s jaw, and then the entire helo jerked, and events seemed to unfold in slow motion. Maybe the pilot hit one of the instruments by mistake, or maybe Peppie did, but whatever the cause, the helo swooped sharply up and lost power.

  Next thing Crocker knew it was looping down and sharply left. The pilot, copilot, and Major Martins were all apoplectic, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  Crocker turned and shouted to his men, “Hold on! Hold the fuck on!”

  The pilot was struggling to get the big metal bird under control. Peppie wasn’t strapped in, and lost his balance and crashed to the floor.

  Crocker braced himself between the two seats, wishing he had a helmet, the helo pitching left and right. Too late for that…r />
  The big metal bird spun sharply low and right. The pilot struggled to gain control and boost the engine’s power at the same time.

  Crocker saw the top of a tree appear suddenly through the mist. Shouted, “Watch out!”

  Saw it smash into the bubble window. Heard the pilot scream. He finally lurched forward to grab the controls himself. But it was too late. The helo tumbled right, throwing Peppie against the side of the fuselage with a thud. Hit another tree—bang!—then another that threw the copilot out of his seat into the front of the bubble windshield.

  Didn’t he fucking strap himself in?

  Struggling to hold on himself, Crocker shouted one more time, “Hold on!”

  The right side of the helo hit the ground first. Crocker felt the tail break free, and the impact threw him into Peppie, sprawled over the center console, and he cracked his head into the lieutenant’s back and passed out.

  Chapter Seven

  “…we operate a predatory, neocolonial capitalist system, which is founded on fraud and exploitation…”

  —sample in Falz’s song “This Is Nigeria”

  Festus Ratty couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. He stood on the seat of the jeep with his hands over his mouth and his fighters gathered around the vehicle.

  First, he had watched one of the Nigerian helicopters turn and run away like a frightened chicken. While he and his men had been celebrating that occurrence, the second military helicopter hit a tree, spun, and crashed into the brush ahead.

  Like an awesome scene from an action movie, like the hand of God had flung the funny-looking metal bird out of the sky. Festus was now pointing in the direction of where the helo went down, jumping up and down on the seat, and screaming, “You see this. You see, my brothers!! You think that there are no miracles! You think that the great Allah is not on our side!”

  He beat his chest over and over and felt a newfound power coursing through him, and his legend growing before his eyes. His face in the newspapers and on TV.

  Heard his men shouting and waving weapons over their heads. “Leopard! Leopard! King of the jungle!”

  Pointing to them, he shouted back, “Now you see the truth, my brothers. This is the power we have. This is the kingdom!”

  They exploded in celebration, firing in the air and shouting, “Allahu Akbar!” In Festus Ratty’s mind, God was already welcoming him into heaven and pointing to a place beside his throne for him to sit. Beautiful maidens with brass trays of food and nectars waited to serve him.

  He was the unspoiled, untamed man of nature, brave enough to face the modern infidels and their machines. Victory was his destiny.

  The downed helicopter sent pieces of hot hissing metal flying through the bush around them. Festus Ratty felt so invincible he didn’t bother to cover his head.

  His one-eyed aide, Modu, looked up at him and said, “Commander, this is the kingdom. And in the kingdom you are destined to lead us…Tell us what to do now and we will follow!”

  Festus Ratty nodded and composed himself. Head in his hands, he considered the circumstances. First, he pointed to a thickly bearded fighter with a big belly. “Abu Sata, you will stay with four men to guard the girls in the truck.”

  “It is God’s will.”

  “Modu, you will take four other men and go meet our Ambazonian brothers to make sure they have brought what they promised and the terms are still the same.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “The exchange prices have already been worked out with Russian arms dealer Victor Balt. One girl for every three man-portable air defense systems”—MANPADS—“one girl for every crate of AK-47s; one for every crate of Russian-made RPG-7s. The Ambazonians give you any shit, you let me know.”

  “Yes.”

  “If everything is cool, you radio Abu Sata, and he will bring the girls.”

  “It is God’s will.”

  “You got all that?”

  The two sub-commanders nodded.

  “The rest of you will come with me to hit the downed helicopter. We’re gonna hit it hard, you know. Kill any survivors, grab anything of value—radios, binoculars, weapons, watches.”

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  “The kingdom is ours!”

  CT had strapped himself to the bench on the left side of the helicopter next to Akil, which helped him avoid the serious damage to the opposite side of the fuselage. He stared at it now, half conscious, steam curling past the ripped aluminum skin. The strong smell of aviation fuel made him focus and try to sit up.

  The fuel tank is compromised. Gotta get out…fast!

  Pivoting left toward the cockpit, he experienced an enormous jolt of pain from the back of his head. The underside of his ribs ached, too. Felt strange hands touching him there, started to push them away. “Hey…”

  “Hay is for horses…Hold still.”

  Looked up at Mancini—aka Manny and Big Dog, Crocker’s right-hand man and expert in all things technical. Blood streamed from a cut above his eyebrow.

  “You’re leaking, bro…”

  “It’s nothing. Hold still.”

  Manny sliced through the strap with his SOP knife. Held CT upright. “Stay still. I’m going to check for structural damage along your neck and back.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “Quiet!”

  Mancini felt carefully, but found no broken vertebrae or protruding discs.

  “Now try moving your head and legs.”

  “Something’s not right…But I think I can manage.”

  CT started to push himself to his feet.

  “Easy, big guy…” Mancini helped hold him up, smoke rising from the instrument panel, red lights flashing. “You sure you can stand on your own?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Good…This sucker’s gonna blow soon. The enemy is close.”

  “Where are the rest of the guys?”

  Mancini wiped the blood away from his eye. “Romeo’s outside with Gator. Crocker’s in the cockpit trying to save Martins. I’m going to help him now. You think you can manage to set up outside?”

  “Can do, brother. Thanks.” CT stood in a crouch. Found his AK lodged under the bench. Managed to jimmy it out with Manny’s help, who now pointed to the back of the helo. That’s when CT realized that the whole tail section had been ripped away.

  Heard someone moan from the cockpit and turned. Saw a mangled mess of metal and bodies, and Crocker kneeling over one. Took a step toward him, when Manny stopped him and pointing to the back opening. “Go outside! Now!”

  “But—”

  “Clear away as far from the helo as you can. We’ll catch up!”

  “Roger.”

  Mancini pushed around twisted metal and broken benches to the cockpit, where he saw Crocker working on Major Martins.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Yep.”

  Crocker had been protected by Lieutenant Peppie’s body, which had prevented him from being thrown sideways and forward, and probably saving him from serious injury or death. Peppie hadn’t been as fortunate—his neck impaled on the center console. Through the mist that filled the cockpit, a strange relieved expression on his face.

  Up ahead, Mancini saw that the pilot’s head had almost been completely obliterated, and the copilot also lay in a mangled mess, his legs and twisted torso hanging halfway out the shattered front.

  Fuck…

  He turned back to Crocker. “We need to get the hell outta here, pronto.”

  “Just a sec.”

  The smell of aviation fuel filling his throat and nostrils, Crocker coolly attended to Martins, quickly working through the trauma medical progression. A for airway…Cleared. B for breathing…Good. C for circulation…Elevated pulse…Not good.

  Not good at all…Gotta call for help…

  The reason: a big slash to Martins’s left chest, which he packed with QuikClot. Planned to clean and bandage the wound once he got him outside. It was the apparent trauma to Martins’s back that alarme
d him. Not only was the major as stiff as a board, even the slightest application of pressure to the area caused him to wail.

  His spine?

  Damage there could be worsened by moving him, and increase the risk of paralysis.

  Mancini knelt beside him, blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

  “Call for medevac,” Crocker said.

  “Boss, we need to evacuate first!”

  Smoke was already starting to rise through a crack in the floor, and it was probably a matter of seconds before the helo caught fire and exploded.

  Crocker reached under to try to feel the extent of the damage to the major’s back.

  Manny shouted, “No time for that, Boss! Let’s go.”

  “You go ahead.”

  “Fuck that. You come with me, or we die together.”

  “Okay…Grab him by the legs, and help me get him out. Carefully…”

  First they freed the major’s tangled body, then Crocker lifted him under his right shoulder. That’s when he noticed a flicker of flame through the gash in the floor.

  “Shit…”

  “Out the back,” said Mancini, nodding past his right shoulder.

  Crocker hadn’t thought to inspect his own body, but became aware now of searing pain from his right upper thigh. Saw the gash in his black pants. Pushed through the pain and stumbled toward the back, an AK slung over his left shoulder, thinking that he should stop and look for a radio—they were going to need a radio—but there was no time given the fact that his entire groin was tightening, and blue flames were already crawling up the side of the fuselage to his right.

  Took a deep breath and gritted through.

  “Duck!”

  The top of his head scraped on some metal on the way out. Rain pelted his head and back. He paused to take a breath. Smoke caught in his throat.

  “Keep moving!” Mancini shouted. “Follow me.”

  Crocker remembered the medical kit and was about to say stop when in the golden glow of light, he saw that Mancini had it slung around his neck.

  “Sweet.”

  “What’s sweet?”