by Don Mann
“Never mind.”
Stumbled into the brush, and focused on the light that lit up his colleague’s thick neck and shoulders to push away the pain.
“That’s it, boss! Keep moving forward! Another fifty meters…”
Fuck…
Felt the heat on his back and realized where the light was coming from. Pushed as hard as he could. The major was speaking with someone who wasn’t there. Seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation based on the frown on his face.
“Faster!”
Fuck you, Manny.
His boot had filled with water, or maybe it was blood. His heart burned in his throat.
“A few more meters!”
“Motherfucker!”
What Crocker would do now for a plate of spaghetti and meatballs at Il Giardino. A date with Cyndi. He imagined her tight bikinied body standing in shallow water.
What the fuck am I doing?
The light grew brighter to the point where it lit up the ground and he could clearly see where he was stepping—which was good and bad.
A loud whoosh, and he was shoved hard from behind. The thrust was so strong that it lifted him off his feet and forward, so he was literally flying.
Then he landed chest-first on the ground and lost consciousness.
Chichima dreamt that she was standing up to her knees in a river, drawing water with a bucket. Clear, fresh water. Something pressed into her shoulder and she opened her eyes. Saw a huge flash in the bush ahead as a column of fire rose into the night sky. The explosion that followed a split-second later hurt her eardrums.
She ducked her head and prayed.
When she looked up she saw a group of Boko Haram fighters running toward them. Recognizing the thickly bearded, heavyset man in front, she felt a pang of anguish rise from the pit of her stomach that almost caused her to pass out.
“Look,” Navina exclaimed beside her. “It’s Abu Sata.”
“I see…”
“What happened? They look angry. Are they coming to kill us?”
If they were, to Chichima’s mind, it would make a bitter kind of sense.
Because her and Abu Sata’s fates had been bound together, though not through any free choice of hers.
Lowering her face into her hands, she remembered that a year into Boko Haram captivity, she had been presented with a choice: convert to Islam and take a husband, or be sold as a slave. She was barely seventeen at the time, and had never been with a man before.
She decided to perform the Shahada (testimony of faith), and to testify, “There is no true god but Allah, and Mohammad is the Messenger of God.” The imam taught her how to repeat the words in Arabic.
He gave her a new name, Barja (“possessing beautiful eyes”), and prayed that none of the Leopard’s men would want her. She considered ripping her hair out, screaming like an animal, and acting crazy. She even thought of using a sharp rock to ruin her face and body.
Then one day the imam introduced her to a woman who spoke to her briefly and carefully inspected her legs and hands.
She turned out to be the sister of a heavy, sour-smelling man named Abu Sata, who carried an automatic rifle and wore a belt of bullets across his wide chest and stomach. He seemed awkward and shy. Without looking her in the eye, he handed her a copy of the Quran, and said in Kanuri, “A man without a wife is like a vase without flowers.”
Chichima had tried to pretend it was all a bad dream and that her mother would arrive with a glass of hot tea and wake her. She and Abu Sata sat in a clearing and drank tea. He had deep tribal scars on his face. As he read from a piece of paper, his sister translated, “The Prophet Mohammad advises the following…Go and see her, for seeing her in person is much better for having harmony between the two of you.”
Chichima remembered looking down at the ground, hoping it would swallow her and magically transport her to another world. Meanwhile, Abu Sata’s sister talked about her brother’s bravery on the battlefield, how he was one of the Leopard’s most esteemed fighters, and had already acquired two other wives.
She tuned her words out completely, reciting lines in her head from “Wrong Destination” by the Nigerian poet Mabel Segun, which she had memorized at school.
My thoughts strove ever so bravely
To grow among the weeds,
But they were choked to death…
She didn’t want to be with this man, but she didn’t want to die, either.
They were married on a Sunday in Shawwal, the tenth month of the lunar Islamic calendar. Before the ceremony, Abu Sata’s sister and another female relative spread a special mixture of sugar and lime juice over Chichima’s skin to remove all body hair except for that on her head. They decorated her hands and feet with henna tattoos. Then, as they put special oils in her hair, and smeared perfumed oil over her skin, they read from the Quran:
Righteous women are devoutly obedient, guarding in the husband’s absence what Allah would have them guard. But those wives from whom you fear arrogance, first advise them; then if they persist, forsake them in bed; and finally, strike them. But if they obey you once more, seek no means against them.
But her hopes and expectations of a better life didn’t go away. She clung to them even as she dressed in a white smock and a veil. The sun shone. Abu Sata appeared wearing a clean camouflage uniform. With the imam and some fighters watching, Abu Sata placed a ring on her right hand. Then Abu Sata was called away.
That afternoon, his sister led her to a hut higher in the mountains. There Chichima was introduced to Abu Sata’s other wives, who showed her how to cook, wash his uniforms, and prepare herself for him the way he liked. Two nights later, he arrived very late, climbed on top of her, nearly smothering her, and entered her.
Now I’m without my thoughts;
They’ve given me new ones,
But we do not get along—
They’re someone else’s thoughts,
Not mine.
Afterward she cried herself to sleep. To her mind, it was a fate only slightly better than death, and completely opposite of the future she had imagined for herself.
Once a week, her husband would arrive in the hut at night and climb on top of her. They exchanged no tender kisses or words. Afterward, Chichima would chide herself for not being brave enough to commit suicide by throwing herself off a cliff, or at least trying to escape as some of the other girls had tried to do.
Now she felt water dripping down her back and the girls around her trembling with fear. The back gate of the trunk creaked open and the men pulled them up, roughly.
She kept her eyes closed, because she didn’t want to see Abu Sata’s face and feel the shame again.
“What happens now?” Navina whispered. “Where are they taking us?”
Chichima didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.
The night had offered so many positive developments so far that Festus Ratty Kumar was almost giddy with excitement. He moved through the bush toward the downed Nigerian military listening to Lil Wayne through his headphones. “Look at you, now look at us…” His AK loaded and ready; a two-way radio tucked into his waistband.
“Rich as Fuck” was one of his favorite tunes. The same defiance and swagger ran through his veins.
“Look at you, now look at us…Money talks, bullshit walks…”
More AK-47s, RPGs, and two man-portable air defense systems would soon enter his arsenal. The MANPADS alone would give him the ability to shoot down the Nigerian flying robots—his terms for military helicopters, jet fighters, and drones.
He’d assured Victor Balt that the girls were young and beautiful and worth their weight in gold—and a currency that to Festus’s mind was in abundant supply.
Anytime he needed more, he’d just snatch them, like he snatched everything else.
Who is gonna stop me now?
He didn’t trust the Ambazonians, either. The Ambazonians were Cameroon rebels who wanted to establish an English-speaking republic in Wes
tern Cameroon.
Sounded wack to him.
Should he have any hassle with the Ambazonians, he’d have no problems taking them out and stealing their cargo.
“Look at you, now look at us…I just wanna hit and run…”
He smiled at his own cleverness and took another sip of purple drank—like his man Lil Wayne—from the flask he carried in his back pocket.
As it burned its way down his throat to his stomach, he saw a flash of light behind him and to his right, and stopped. The explosion came a split second later.
He knelt behind a tree, grabbed his Standard Horizon handheld radio and shouted into it: “What the fuck was that?”
One of his men exclaimed back through it, “The helicopter exploded! You okay, Commander?”
“Haha! I’m good. They got what they deserved!”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Any survivors?”
“We’re looking now.”
Chapter Eight
“To get lost is to learn the way.”
—Nigerian proverb
CT hugged the warm ground, which felt welcoming, almost maternal. A stream to his right gurgled gently over the steady whistle of rain. He imagined his sister Alexis crouching beside him. Then a burst of AK bullets sailed over his head and tore into the trees behind him.
Where the fuck am I? What am I doing here?
His hand rested on a black AN/PSC-5 Spitfire radio. It helped him remember.
Yeah…Yeah…Gotta make contact before we’re all killed.
He ignored the second stream of bullets, trusting that Akil, who he remembered was somewhere farther east along the embankment, would hold off the enemy long enough for him to manage the dials, which he was focusing on now. The back of his head hurt like hell. The pain beckoned him to a clean bed with white sheets and his wife, Nasima, holding his hand.
Baby…Oh, baby…
The will he’d developed as a wrestler came in handy. The light from the burning helo helped him see the keypad. He punched in the code—72HH1.
“TOC-Alpha. This is Croc One. Do you read me? Over.”
A voice with British-accented English came through the headset. “Yes…This is TOC-Alpha. Identify yourself. Over.”
Lowered the volume as the shooting picked up. He lowered himself closer to the ground so he could feel his warm breath. Waited for a response from Akil, but heard nothing.
Intimate and dangerous. Gathered his thoughts. “I’m with 72 AFSF. 72 AFSF…based in Yola…One of the American advisors aboard Crocodile One. We just crash-landed near the Cameroon border. Suffered casualties. Incoming fire, require backup a-sap. Immediate medevac…Over.”
“Crocodile One? Can you confirm that? Over.”
“Crocodile One, that’s correct. Over.”
He removed the headset. The shooting had drawn closer. So near he heard voices of men speaking in a native dialect.
Where the fuck is Akil?
As a kid, he’d marveled at a shrunken head under a glass dome at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. Wondered if he was about to die in this part of Africa. Made to bleed into the same soil his ancestors had bled into.
Alexis, what do you think of that?
“Crocodile One, you hear me? Over.”
He was lost for a moment, replaying the shock of the helicopter crash.
Replaced the headset. “Crocodile One, this is TOC-Alpha. Do you read me? Over.”
CT lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “TOC-Alpha. This is Crocodile One. I hear you. Yes…We’ve suffered casualties. Three at least. More injured. We’re pinned down now near the Cameroon border. Crocodile Two has turned back. Need medevac and support…immediately. As fast as you can. Over.”
Pushed the headset away from his ears.
The footsteps were so close he could hear them distinctly. CT reached for the AK on his back. Considered picking up the toaster-size radio and battery pack and retreating, when he was interrupted by a click and the whoosh of an RPG. Seconds later…an explosion, the sound of splintering wood, followed by heavy automatic weapons fire, and the anguished cry of a wounded man.
Akil?!
“Copy, Crocodile One,” the man on the other end of the radio responded. “Crocodile One, message received at Yorba. Will report to my commanders and respond. Over.”
“Respond quickly, TOC-Alpha! We’re under attack. Situation is critical! Send support now! Over and out!”
He tore off the headphones, saw someone in the bush ahead near the embankment along the stream. Prayed it was Akil, but couldn’t be sure. Went belly to the ground, readied his weapon, and took a deep breath and counted the seconds in his head.
One, two, three, four…
Waited for movement, scanned through the scope for a target. Heard something shift in the bush behind him. Turned abruptly and saw Akil crouched near the root on a fallen tree with a big grin on his face, casually giving him a thumbs-up.
Akil, you excellent motherfucker…
Wanted to shout, he was so glad to see him. Saw the RPG slung over his shoulder.
“You the one who did the shooting?” he whispered.
“Who else?”
“Wait…” Took a moment to send out an SOS signal on the MARS emergency military network. Then whispered to himself, “Hope someone responds…”
Crocker cursed himself for not being better prepared, and for failing to unload more gear off the helo before it blew. He stopped himself.
Got to focus on the present.
Quickly took stock—limited weapons, limited ammo, limited comms, and only one quickly dwindling medical kit. He’d lost much of his gear pulling away from the wreckage.
He wanted to blame it on the Nigerians, but that was useless, too.
Make the best of what you got.
No weapon or zone control. No control of immediate environment. No nothing.
A hot, ripe disaster, as his dad used to say. His dad always with a smile, a joke, and a sunny attitude.
The good news was that he had patched up the wounds to Major Martins’s chest and back, and the major’s vitals had stabilized. Wasn’t sure how he’d managed, or how long Martins would last. He was shot up with morphine now and strapped to an Israeli litter that rested along the base of a nearby tree, quietly holding a conversation with someone in his head.
Crocker considered stuffing a rag in his major’s mouth. For the time being it wasn’t necessary even though the enemy was close, because no one could hear shit through the heavy rain. Couldn’t see shit, either.
Wanted to huddle with Lieutenant Peppie, and then remembered that he’d died in the helo along with the pilot and copilot.
I hope they’re in a better place…
In addition to attending to Major Martins, he also found time to set Gator’s broken right leg and arm as best he could using SAM splints from the med kit, and wrapping them tight with bandages. Remembered he’d given Gator a handful of extra-strength (800 mg.) Motrin (aka SEAL candy) to numb the pain.
Now Gator sat with his back propped up against the same tree Martins lay beneath with an AK pressed to his right shoulder, his whole body trembling. Crocker wished he had a Kevlar blanket to wrap around him, but there were none available.
As far as the gash to his own leg was concerned, all Crocker knew was that the QuikClot had stemmed the bleeding. He had no idea how far or how fast he could move on it. Didn’t have enough ES Motrin to spare on himself, either.
Didn’t really matter, because with the injuries to Martins and Gator, it was impossible to move. Temporarily, they had lost contact with Akil and CT, who carried the only radio. All he could do was hope that CT had reached the TOC in Yola and help was on its way.
The really bad news was that they were stuck somewhere between the Boko Haram column and a group of trucks that had arrived from Cameroon bearing Ambazonians, according to Lieutenant Peppie. He didn’t know how many of them there were, but assumed they were well armed.
Which
meant they were almost certainly fucked. Because, despite the darkness and rain, he knew that Boko Haram was searching for them at this very moment, and they wouldn’t be that hard to find since they had only managed to move about three hundred meters away from the burning helicopter.
It was only a matter of time.
The Boko Haram were jostling them, and helping the girls to the ground with urgency. Rain was falling so hard now Chichima couldn’t see more than five feet in front. The dirt had turned into mud.
Why are we here? What are they doing with us?
The men had fever in their eyes. One of them pushed Chichima’s face down into the mud, as though he was about to bury her.
Please, don’t bury me alive…
She imagined that she was immune to fear at this point, but the thought of being suffocated by the mud filled her with terror. She noticed that the men didn’t have shovels. They were pushing and kicking her and the other girls under the truck, and shouting, “Ala! Ala! Ala!”
Why? Why is this happening? Gods and spirits, if I offended you in any way, I’m sorry. My only sin was pride. I was a normal village girl hoping to make a more modern life.
Thick mud entered her mouth and nostrils.
She lay still, overwhelmed again by memory. Her marriage to Abu Sata had lasted five painful, miserable months. Months she’d tried to block out, or excise from her brain. Still, the memories lingered like the stench of rotting locust beans.
There were some things Chichima hadn’t been able to fake, even when her life depended on it. They included showing any passion for her sour-smelling, crude husband. The nights he came to take her body, her mind traveled elsewhere, through the holes in the roof, to join the night birds in the trees.
She had gotten used to living simultaneously in different places, some so strange they only seemed to exist in her imagination.
The more distracted she had become, the more Abu Sata grew frustrated, until he slapped her face and shouted, “Where are you, woman?”
She stopped eating. It wasn’t a conscious decision to stage a hunger strike. It was her body rebelling, saying: this is unacceptable.
