by Don Mann
It got to the point where the only thing she could keep in her stomach was water. She became so weak, she couldn’t think clearly and couldn’t remember if she was Chichima, Barja, someone else, or two different people at once.
The thinner and frailer she became, the more her husband beat her. Abu Sata wanted his young wife to get pregnant and bear him a son. To Chichima the thought of creating another human being out of some sense of duty made her crazier.
One day she wandered off into the bush, talking to herself. When Abu Sata found her, he tied her to a tree like a dog, and made her sleep outside. When she refused to eat even simple boiled rice, he pushed the food down her throat. When she spit it up, he beat her again.
After months of beatings, Abu Sata gave up and returned her to the prison camp at the base of the mountains.
He told the imam, “There is something wrong with this woman. She still has an infidel spirit living inside her.”
Her friends at the camp slowly nursed Chichima back to health.
Months passed before she was able to think clearly again. Though no one had informed her, she assumed her marriage was over.
She had asked herself then, What’s next?
Now she realized that Navina and the other ten girls with them lying in the mud under the truck had also failed to satisfy their captors in some way. And she thought she had an answer to her question.
They’re going to leave us here to die in the jungle.
Chapter Nine
“If you want to go quickly, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”
—African proverb
Behind a clump of five-foot-high bushes, Manny crouched beside Crocker. He’d just returned from doing some recon and was breathing hard.
“What’s the situation?” Crocker asked.
“The BH column has stopped roughly fifty meters east-south-east. They seem to have staged there, right off the path.”
“Why?”
“Unclear. A group of ’em are sifting through the remains of the helo. Another group went to meet with the Ambazonians farther north, about another forty meters from here.”
“So we’re stuck between them.”
“Basically.”
“What is the Boko column waiting for?”
“Maybe they want to see if the second helicopter returns. All I know is they got guys out looking and it’s probably a matter of seconds before they find us.”
Crocker wiped the water from his eyes and forehead. “Miracle they haven’t yet.”
“Meanwhile, the four trucks from Cameroon are parked in a clearing about 150 meters north.”
“Soldiers?” asked Crocker.
“Not exactly…Looks to be four drivers and another four to six guards. Lightly armed. I can’t imagine why they would bother looking for us, but I could be wrong. The BHs will, and are.”
“CT and Akil are back. That gives us four able men.”
Mancini asked, “What are you thinking? Was CT able to reach the TOC in Yola?”
“That’s an affirmative. Asked for support and medevac.”
“On its way?”
“Hope so, but we haven’t received confirmation. CT also sent out an emergency signal in case there are any military in the area.”
Thunder cracked overhead.
Crocker looked at the thick bush surrounding them and said, “Even if relief helos do come, they’ll have a difficult time to pulling us out.”
Mancini nodded. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that we leave a couple men here to watch Gator and Martins, and the rest of us outflank the Ambazonians and surprise them from the west. You know between here and the Cameroon border. How far did you say that is?”
“To the Amazonian trucks. Fifty meters. Sixty max.”
“Close.”
Mancini nodded again. “Yeah…But…why? Like I said before, they appear to be more guards than soldiers. But then again, what does an Ambazonian look like? Beats the fuck out of me.”
“Listen…We attack ’em, then return for the others. That gives us trucks, ammo, a clearing for a rescue team to touch down. And it eliminates the possibility that we’re squeezed front and back. Trapped.”
“I say we take everyone with us.”
“Won’t work. They will only slow us down.”
“Boss, it’s the only thing that will work. Besides we’re gonna have to move Martins and the others eventually.”
Crocker considered. “You’re right…We leave ’em here, they’ll probably be killed.”
“That’s what I’m thinking…You okay walking on that leg?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
Crocker, his mind shredded with pain and exhaustion from jogging through the bush, set down one end of the Israeli litter bearing Major Martins behind a group of tall trees at the west end of the clearing. Leaned against a palm tree for a minute to catch his breath.
“They should be safe here,” he said to Mancini—who had taken the other end of the litter—CT, and Akil, who had hauled Gator on his back.
“Not for long,” Akil cracked.
Crocker limped several meters with Mancini past the trees to get a better look at the Ambazonians. In diffuse moonlight that had started to peek through the clouds, he spotted the outlines of the four cargo trucks parked thirty meters south under a line of tall pines. They’d essentially circled to the other side of them, and were now stationed between the trucks and the Cameroon border.
“What do we do now?” Manny asked.
“Wait here for medevac.”
They’d stopped on the way so CT could radio the TOC in Yola a second time. Yola informed them they were still waiting for approval from military headquarters in Abuja, and headquarters was concerned about launching more helicopters in bad weather.
The rain had let up.
“Problem is the longer we stay here, and the lighter it gets, the greater the chance Boko Haram finds us,” said Crocker, thinking out loud.
“You think the BHs have figured that there were some survivors of the crash and fire?”
“How would they have done that?”
“All the gear we left behind,” offered Mancini. “If I’m them, I’m not gonna leave the area until I find survivors.”
“Agree. And the longer we wait for medevac, the slimmer the chance Martins lives.”
Back at the hiding place behind the trees, Crocker asked CT to try the TOC again. He looked up a few minutes later and shook his head. “They’re still waiting for approval from Abuja.”
“You tell them about the improving weather and the wounded?”
“Yup. Also, sent out another SOS over MARS.”
Crocker pulled his black T-shirt over his head and wrung out the liquid. Turned to Akil and Mancini crouched to his right and said, “They’re not coming…”
Akil shook his head. “We’re on our own.”
“We either sit here and wait for the bad guys to do their exchange and leave, or we take the fight to them now and hope we can grab one of the trucks.”
“Losers wait for motivation,” Akil growled. “Winners get shit done.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Some motivational speaker on YouTube.”
“You need a checkup from the neck up, bro.”
Mancini jumped in. “If we’re gonna hit the trucks, we better do it now, before the BHs get there.”
Crocker nodded. “Let’s go.”
CT stayed behind with Major Martins and Gator. Crocker instructed them to signal with two three-shot bursts should the Bokos spot them.
Now as he climbed the heavily forested embankment with Manny and Akil, he took stock. All they had were three AKs, six full mags, two grenades, and an RPG-7 armed with a single missile. Not an impressive arsenal. That’s why it was vital to maintain the element of surprise, which they were trying to do now, taking a wide arc up, then climbing up through a thicket of banana trees until they faced the sides of the trucks in the clearing
below.
Akil, at his right, was doing his best to keep Crocker’s mind off his barking leg, whispering, “Boss, you hear the story of the two old men, Moe and Joe, who decided to make one last visit to a brothel?”
“Nope. Not interested.”
“When the madam took a look at the two drunk old geezers she turned to one of her girls and said, ‘Put some inflated dolls in the first two bedrooms. These geezers are so old and drunk they won’t know the difference.’”
“Quiet.”
“So the old guys are walking home, right? And Moe turns to his friend and says, ‘I think my girl was dead.’ ‘Why?’ Joe asked. ‘Because she never moved or made a sound all the time I was fucking her.’”
“Not funny.”
“Joe says, ‘Could be worse. I think mine was a witch.’ ‘Why’s that?’ Moe asks. ‘Because as I was kissing her all over her body, I gave her a little bite on the butt, and she farted and flew out the window.’”
Crocker held back a laugh, and punched Akil’s shoulder. “You’re two cans short of a six-pack.”
Now that they had reached the top, the problem was that the vehicles sat under tall trees at the far edge of the open space, so to get to them they had to cross about twenty-five meters with no cover. Circling left would take them back in the direction of their teammates, which they didn’t want to do. The right side offered less in way of cover—lower shrubs and the road, or more like a path.
Also, the rain had completely stopped. They still had the cover of night.
“What do you think?” Crocker asked turning to Mancini, trying to ignore the warnings from his leg.
“Whatever we do, we better do it quick.”
The trucks were parked back-to-back under a canopy of trees with the largest separation between the truck farthest right and the one next to it. As Manny had reported earlier there appeared to be four drivers, four armed men, and a ninth man with a big belly who seemed to be running the operation. Crocker saw them now through the Steiner binos gathered near the cab of the first truck on the left.
He said, “Here’s the plan. Akil, you’re gonna approach down the middle in line with that big tree over there.”
“Got it.”
“Manny and I will attack from the right. We’ll take up our positions first. We’ve got nothing to signal with so you’ll have to time it the best you can.”
“Tick, tick, Chief. No problem.”
“Okay, Mr. Timex,” Crocker continued to Akil. “You then set up at the bottom center where you’re not too exposed and fire the missile at the truck farthest left where all the ’Zonians are. It appears to be sitting low on its suspension, which probably means that it’s loaded with ammo. Take that sucker out.”
“One and done.”
“Once you hit it, the rest of them are either gonna run or jump in the trucks to the right. Manny and I will attack from a forty-degree angle. Akil, cover center and left.”
“I can do that.”
“Everybody clear?”
“Clear as fuck.”
“Let’s hit it!”
Nothing ever went according to plan, and this wasn’t the exception. As Crocker started descending the slick incline, he slipped, jamming his leg. A massive bolt of pain traveled up his spine to his brain, and almost knocked him out. He tumbled down and landed in a heap at the right edge of the clearing.
The sound alerted the Ambazonian guards, two of whom took cover behind the truck farthest left. Meanwhile, the other two wandered out, weapons ready, to find the source of the noise. Crocker lay semiconscious, trying to overcome the intense pain from his leg, and crawl to the shrubs to his right.
He heard someone calling over the radio clipped to the top of his combat vest. “Boss…Boss?”
Akil, seeing the armed men approach Crocker, slid down the embankment on his ass, went to his knees, aimed the RPG at the truck far left, and fired. The missile hit behind the cab, inches from the fuel tank. It exploded—boom!—and the battle was on.
Light-green tracers zinged back and forth across the background of dark trees, flames from the truck licked the sky, and men shouted, ran, and fired in various states of panic and confusion. Seeing how exposed Crocker was, Manny ran down the embankment, AK blazing. He raked the two Ambazonians until his gun jammed and he tossed it aside. A round hit his chest, knocked him back and caused his feet to slip out from under him.
He landed with a thud a few feet from Crocker, when a secondary explosion from the truck lifted them both off the ground. It also roused Crocker from his mental haze. He blinked at what looked, at first, to be a spectacular Fourth of July celebration.
Until a flying shard of hot metal lodged in his injured leg.
Fuck this bullshit!
He pulled it out, singeing his fingers. Now he was fully alert. Took in the burning truck, Mancini, and an Ambazonian with a submachine gun going to his knees twenty meters away.
Crocker shouldered the AK, spun left, and fired. Saw the man twist and fall, with a scream of agony, followed by a few seconds of silence and a flash of white light, and a deafening crack of thunder.
What the hell was that?
The rain picking up again was a form of answer. Crocker slithered on his belly to Mancini as warm rain pelted his back, building to an angry deluge.
“Manny. Hey, Manny!”
He lay still. Crocker found a pulse on the common carotid artery on his neck. Ripping open Manny’s T-shirt, he felt an indentation on his Dragon Skin vest, and burnt his hand from the still-hot bullet lodged in it. He sighed with relief.
You lucky bastard…
The big man moaned, half-conscious, his head turned to the side. “Car…Hey, Car…” Carmen was his wife’s name.
Knowing that a powerful impact to the chest could throw off one’s heartbeat, which could result in a stroke, he rechecked Mancini’s pulse. Another percussive blast sounded, muffled through the rain.
Sixty-five beats per minute. Still ticking…
He knew he needed to aid Akil, if they had any chance of succeeding. Slapped Manny twice until he opened his eyes, sat up halfway, and grabbed his chest.
“What happened?”
Crocker slid him on his butt behind a nearby shrub. “You got hit in the chest, but your vest stopped it. Rest here until you’re ready, I’m going to help Akil!”
Chapter Ten
“Sticks in a bundle are unbreakable.”
—Bondei proverb
Thank you,” CT whispered to the rain pounding over his head, neck, and back.
He hadn’t lost his mind. He was expressing his appreciation to the rain for the cover it provided, and for masking the groans from Major Martins, who lay to his left, buried up to his neck in leaves. Gator sat with his back against a boulder, eyes half-opened. CT was the only one of the three fully awake and capable of putting up any resistance, should Boko Haram or the Ambazonians approach.
The latter weren’t likely to do that now, as they seemed to be engaged in a firefight with CT’s SEAL teammates. CT couldn’t hear the firing, but felt the explosions and saw the light from the burning truck. He wished he had NVGs or rain goggles to enable him to see better.
What he couldn’t realize was that only fifteen meters separated him, Gator, and Major Martins from the Boko Haram terrorists, who had finished searching the helo wreckage and were now moving toward them.
He shivered.
“Yo, Gator?” he whispered.
A few seconds passed before Gator answered weakly. “What’s up, ami?”
CT pressed closer. “You and me, we’re going to Mardi Gras next year.”
Gator shivered back. “We meant to be sitting by the bayou, bro…Think this shit Crocker gave me is messing with my head…”
“More messed up than it was before?”
“Yo…Just saw a waitress walk up to me and ask if I wanted onions on my burger.”
“Do you?”
“Spanish onions, yo…Spanish red, if they got ’em.”
>
Crocker ran toward the farthest-right truck, cutting through the driving rain, his leg cramping and screaming at him to stop.
Coming up along the far side of it, he saw Akil crouched behind the front wheel of the truck ahead, lining up something in his AK’s sights.
His radio wasn’t working, so he had no choice but to hurry up beside him. Akil didn’t see or hear him till he was at his shoulder. This was the second time in all their years together that Crocker could remember seeing fear cloud Akil’s eyes.
“Boss…What the fuck.”
The first time had been on a raid to a rebel base in Libya, three years ago.
Akil slapped the stock of his AK. “I’m down to two rounds.”
“Take mine.” Crocker handed him the only remaining mag in his tactical vest.
Akil pointed and whispered. “They’re huddled near the second truck.”
“How many?”
Akil held up five fingers, then shrugged.
Crocker had no clear idea either. He’d counted nine before they launched the attack, less the one he’d wasted in the field, less maybe one or two who had died or were injured when the first truck exploded. Five sounded right.
Trouble was, he was short on ammo, too. But then he remembered: the trucks were rumored to be carrying weapons and ammo to resupply Boko Haram.
Whispering to Akil, “Wait here. I’m going to check inside,” he pointed to the truck.
In the back, Crocker felt stacks of wooden crates, but couldn’t see shit. Found the penlight on his combat vest, removed the SOG knife from its sheath—seven inch AUS-8 metal blade with a partially serrated edge and black glass-reinforced nylon handle.
Holding the lit penlight in his teeth, he pried open one of the longer boxes. RPG-7s covered in Styrofoam beads. He removed one and set it aside. It was useless without rocket/grenade rounds to attach. Next, the smaller crate: AK ammo. He stuffed curved thirty-round 7.62mmx39mm mags in his belt and vest, eight in all, until they weighed him down.
