by Don Mann
Whatever frustrations he had with his superiors, he would never forget the value of discipline and service to country and others that the Navy had instilled in him.
Now he was Skyping with the Colombia-born widow of ex–SEAL Six teammate Cole Nathans. Cole had died three years ago in a helicopter crash in Afghanistan, and had left behind a wife, young daughter, and teenage son. Crocker had recently met Cole’s widow, Manuela, at the ST-6 reunion and had agreed to keep in touch.
They had gone out to dinner twice, and had slept together for the first time. Now she was telling Crocker that her fifteen-year-old son, Nash, was having trouble in school and she was worried.
Crocker remembered Nash as a personable, good-looking boy who had been deeply impacted by his father’s death.
“What do you think is bothering him?” he asked.
He’d seen many similar situations of sons and daughters of SEALs who had drifted off course while their fathers were away on missions.
“I don’t know,” Manuela answered. “He doesn’t talk…He stays out late, he never tells me where he is, or who he’s out with.”
She was a fit, attractive woman who coached soccer and volleyball at the local high school. Desirable, and familiar, too.
“Is Nash there now?”
“No, he’s at a friend’s house working on a project for school, but he isn’t answering his phone. I don’t know what to do.”
Akil was at the door, dressed in his best casual clothes and clean-shaven, signaling to Crocker that it was time to go.
“Hold on a sec…”
Akil whispered. “The colonel is waiting…”
Crocker turned back to the screen.
“Manuela, I have something to take care of now, but I’ll call you back.”
“Sorry to bother you with this. I know you’re busy.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not a problem. Tell Nash that I want to take him fishing when I get back. Does he still like deep-sea fishing?”
“I think so.”
“He’s a good kid. Let him know that you believe in him and you trust him. He’ll be okay.”
They had many common friends, history, and interests. He could easily see them together, but knew that if he got involved, it would be complicated for a number of reasons. He hadn’t been there for his wives and daughter, and didn’t want to repeat the pattern again.
He wasn’t sure he was ready to face Colonel Nwosu, either, who had flown in from Abuja. Crocker met him for the first time as he entered what had formerly been Major Martins’s office on the second floor of base HQ.
Colonel Nwosu was taller than he had imagined, with a severe face, and salt-and-pepper hair. Akil had warned Crocker to be careful, since he was a second cousin of President Muhammadu Buhari.
Framed photos of Major Martins standing with various African dignitaries, including Nelson Mandela, former Libyan strongman Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, and former Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan, lined one wall.
After greeting him warmly, the colonel gazed at Crocker with sad, heavy eyes.
“Chief Warrant Officer, at a time like this I have to express what I feel in my heart,” he said in a deep, rich voice. “The loss of Major Martins and our pilots and soldiers has been a serious blow to us, in this part of Nigeria, and we haven’t received one word of condolence, or support from your country. Not a single text, email, or call from any US official.”
Crocker was at a loss for words.
The colonel continued, “I’m not blaming you, Chief. I know this has been very difficult for you as well…But as we say in Africa, silence speaks the loudest.” He held up a finger for emphasis. “Not one call.”
Crocker’s emotions were complicated, wavering between loyalty to his country and displeasure with his captain, and guilt over his role in lobbying for the mission and anger at the Nigerians for not sending reinforcements and medical rescue.
He stood simmering in place as Colonel Nwosu moved behind the desk and read off the names of the dead and injured men starting with Major Martins and Lieutenant Peppie, and the approximate value of the lost helicopter and other equipment.
Despite the colonel’s relationship to the Nigerian president, Crocker decided to speak his mind.
“Colonel, my teammates and I had grown close to Major Martins, Lieutenant Peppie, the pilots, and the other soldiers who died. I know they have families who must feel their loss profoundly. I hope I get a chance to express my condolences to them today.”
“You will, Chief Crocker. You will…”
“As I told my commander, I take full responsibility for my part in the action. I regret that my men and I weren’t more fully prepared. We could have done better.”
Crocker took a deep breath before he continued. “But since we’re being honest, there’s one thing that troubles me, and it’s this…After the helicopter crash, we called the TOC here in Yola repeatedly to send reinforcements and medevac. Had those units arrived, I’m confident that we could have saved some of the lives of the men who were lost.”
Colonel Nwosu fixed Crocker with the same heavy, sad look as before. Turning to the window, he said, “Thank you, Chief, for speaking honestly…”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Assuming he had been dismissed, Crocker crossed to the door, feeling as though he’d gotten something important off his chest. He didn’t know if the training mission would be suspended and he didn’t care…
Colonel Nwosu’s voice stopped him. “Chief, for your information, I want you to know that I did order a medevac team and a Special Forces unit to the battle zone. Unfortunately, all four helicopters were forced to turn around because of the very difficult weather.”
Crocker took a beat to let this news sink in. Then he replied, “This is the first time I’m hearing about this, Colonel. Thank you. I hope you’ll continue to aggressively pursue Boko Haram.”
“We will, Chief. I can assure you of that.”
Crocker saluted and left.
Chapter Fifteen
“If there is no enemy within, the enemy outside can do us no harm.”
—African proverb
Fours day after their return to Yola the sunlight continued to bother Mancini’s eyes. The name for it was photophobia, and in his encyclopedic mind he knew the main causes, which include corneal abrasion and uveitis (inflammation of the iris).
The bear-chested SEAL suspected something more serious. He hadn’t told Crocker or any of his teammates that he was still having trouble sleeping and his head wasn’t right. Normally after a rough op, he bounced back mentally and physically, and each day brought improvement. But this time was different.
For one thing, his senses weren’t working right. At strange and inappropriate times he was experiencing strong, almost overwhelming smells, dreams, and visions breaking into the normal waking consciousness, and sudden obnoxious tastes in his mouth. All weird and disconcerting.
His personal prescription after a difficult op had always been to rest and focus on mundane things—cleaning gear and weapons, cataloging everything, catching up on emails, working out—a form of meditation, which enabled him to track the random thoughts passing through his head.
Some of them, since the mission two nights ago, were highly paranoid and violent in nature, and ended with him living alone in the woods away from the teams, his family, or any form of civilization.
Now Mancini stood looking down at the reviewing field thirty-five meters away and wondering if he should report his concerns about his mental health to Crocker, knowing that if he did, he would probably be sent back to Virginia to see the team shrink, which could result in him being retired from Black Cell.
Long white tents and canopies had been set up with tables and chairs. Hundreds of people—women in white blouses, long colorful skirts, and matching headdresses, and men dressed in long white tunics—occupied the field. At the center, dancers in matching red and gold outfits were performing a choreographed dance accompanied by drum
mers and musicians.
Mancini’s immediate concern was base security, and what he saw in 360-perspective alleviated some of those concerns. A long line of relatives at the gate waiting to be inspected by armed soldiers, all the towers manned by soldiers with machine guns, guards ringing the circumference of the compound, and tanks and APCs at the gate and in the corners. If they weren’t enough to stop a Boko Haram attack, he had his AK and pistol by his bunk, fully loaded, and ready.
He spotted Crocker, CT, and a woman from the local university standing at the edge of the crowd and joined them.
“I thought this was supposed to be a memorial service for Major Martins and the other deceased men,” Mancini remarked, trying to sound confident. “Looks more like a celebration.”
“It’s both,” CT replied, a big smile on his face. He appeared fascinated.
“In Igbo tradition, death is not an end to life,” Ndidi Collins explained. She was the British-born teacher at the nearby American University, who Crocker had met during a trip into town. “It’s simply a transition to a new world.”
An attractive woman, dark skinned with a little British nose and mouth.
“So this is a rite of passage,” Mancini remarked, proud to be standing with teammates who had an interest in local culture. “What happens when you pass to the other side?”
“You enter a different, more spiritual realm,” she replied.
Mancini had been raised a Catholic and believed God was infinite and divine and could only be known by the properties and natures of the things he had created. According to Catholicism, immediately after death, God judged the soul of a person based on their sins and relationship to his son, Jesus Christ, after which the soul would enter three states of afterlife—heaven, purgatory, or final damnation.
“In your culture is the spiritual realm split between heaven and hell?” he asked.
“It’s complicated,” she answered. “We have a saying: He whose brother is in heaven does not go to hell.”
“I’m not sure how to interpret that.”
“Spirit for us is deeply tied to family and society, and that relationship doesn’t end when the spirit leaves the body,” she explained. “This celebration, for example…In the local language it’s called ikwa ozo, which literally means ‘celebrating the dead.’ If the families don’t organize it, they believe the deceased will torment them with disease, disasters, and poverty. So they’re basically making a sort of tribute to the dead and sending them off with good wishes.”
CT pointed to a group of men and women seated under one tent all dressed the same—the females in white dresses with purple headdresses and big coral necklaces, and the males in immaculate white robes. “Who are they?”
“Those are the relatives,” she answered. “Toward the end of the ceremony, you will see them gather in a circle and shave the heads of the widows.”
“Why?”
Someone set off a firecracker that produced a loud bang. Mancini went into a crouch and covered his head.
“You okay, Manny?” Crocker asked as he extended a hand to help him up.
Ndidi pretended not to notice. “Those towering figures in the middle of the dancers are called masquerades. The men behind the masks never show their faces and are believed to be from secret societies who are able to receive the spirits of the dead.”
“Interesting…”
“So the spirits of the dead are believed to play a part in the celebration?” CT asked.
“Yes…The people from this region, the Igbo people, have very active spiritual lives. Some of them are Christians, but for the most part they honor traditional beliefs and rituals.”
She smiled at the three Americans and said, “Come, let’s get closer and try some of the food…I think you’ll like it.”
Mancini stopped Crocker and whispered, “We still planning to return the equipment we borrowed to the Brits this weekend?”
“We’re leaving first thing in the morning. You’re coming, right?” asked Crocker.
Mancini looked confused. “Don’t know.”
“Tomorrow is Rufus’s birthday. They’re planning a party. Give us a chance to get away and blow off some steam.”
“Yeah. Could be good.”
Two hours after the ceremony had begun, it was still in full swing, fueled by copious amounts of food, alcoholic beverages, and drumming. And Crocker was literally trembling from the dozens of handshakes and hugs he had received from the many relatives of the slain Nigerian commandos—brothers, parents, sisters, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Some spoke English, some didn’t. They all wanted to express their grief, appreciation, and friendship.
The feelings were overwhelming and Gator still weighed on his mind. He wanted to call Germany again. Halfway to the barracks, he was stopped by two Nigerian girls in matching white loose-fitting blouses (called bubas), and colorful long wrap-around skirts (known as iros). The smaller of the two girls also wore a purple head wrap (gele) that matched the fabric of her skirt.
“Remember us?” the taller of the two girls asked. She had wide, high cheekbones and a rounded forehead. Not beautiful in a traditional way, but attractive and beaming with intelligence.
Crocker’s mind was on other things—specifically Gator, and whether he should check with the command to see if the training mission would continue—so he didn’t recognize the girls immediately, and covered that by saying, “Hello…Good to see you.”
“It’s very good to see you again, too,” the taller girl responded.
He looked again and the first thing that struck him about them was their youth; and the second thing was that, unlike most Nigerian women, they appeared gaunt. Then, something about the Asian cast of the taller girl’s eyes struck him as familiar.
“Oh, my God,” he gushed, turning to Chichimi, “you look so much better that I didn’t recognize you at first.”
“I look a long, hot shower and washed my hair. This is my best friend, Navina. You remember? She’s a survivor, too.”
“Yes, of course. Chichima and Navina…Of course! It’s wonderful to see you again. You both look terrific. How are you getting along? How’s your shoulder healing?”
He took her hand, and she leaned closer and rested her head against his chest.
“Much better, thank you. I hardly feel it anymore. It’s strange being back with all these people, but it’s good, too, because they make me feel safe.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Navina, I don’t think we were ever introduced. My name is Tom Crocker. Please call me Crocker. Everybody does.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crocker. Thank you for everything…When we were in the forest we started to think that no one cared. That was the worst part, really. We never expected to see Americans, did we?”
“No…Never.”
“God’s messenger is a trickster, you know. We call him Eshu.”
Crocker smiled. When he asked the girls about their plans, both said that they had decided to return to school—which he considered a brave decision. When they told him that they had been attending the Government Girls’ School in Yola when they had been kidnapped, he offered to introduce them to Ndidi Collins from the American University.
After that the girls took him to meet their families, who offered him hugs and thanks.
Crocker was wrung out by the time he reached the barracks and called the Ramstein Medical Center in Germany. The nurse he spoke to had an update.
“Your friend just came out of surgery, and is resting. The doctors say that his prognosis is good.”
“How good is good?” asked Crocker.
“They cleaned out the infected tissue, and if all goes well tonight, he should be available to talk to you in the morning. He asked us to tell you that he’s anxious to get after the coo-yawns, whatever that means.”
Crocker smiled. “Thank you. That is good news. Thank you very much.”
The drive south to Utorogu was an opportunity for Crocker, Akil, Mancini, CT, and Tiny Chavez to get
away from the base, chill, and see some more of the countryside. Most of the roads they traveled were paved, but a few were so badly damaged that cars and trucks chose to create their own path on what would be considered the shoulder. The scenery definitely made up for any difficulties they had. Beautiful savannas and vistas, lakes, salt flats, and sightings of zebu and species of birds they’d never seen before. A couple times they stopped for souvenirs, and pulled over at a private zoo, where they took pictures of themselves with baboons, antelope, flamingos, goats, and water buffalo—all native to eastern Nigeria.
They snacked on ipekere (plantain chips), peanuts, potato chips, and a hard brittle candy called chin-chin, made with nutmeg, eggs, flour, and sugar.
They followed the A13 to the A4, along the savanna-covered foothills of the Shebshi Mountains. Amusing themselves as they drew further south, they sung along to tunes on Akil’s playlist, including “You Belong with Me,” by Taylor Swift.
Mancini actually knew some of the lyrics. After they finished severely busting his balls, they started with the jokes. Akil began by asking: “How can you tell a soldier is a redneck?”
CT: “His nameplate reads Billy Bob.”
Mild laughter.
Tiny: “His ACUs have cut-off sleeves.”
Same response.
Crocker: “He has a gun rack on his backpack.”
A big laugh from CT.
Akil: “He fixes deer antlers to the front of a tank.”
Groans.
Tiny: “You find live bait in his footlocker.”
The most popular so far.
Akil: “He tries to design a new beret, out of a hubcap.”
Groans and some laughs.
Akil said, “Come on, Manny. Don’t you have something?”
Mancini thought for a minute and responded, “He refers to the field latrine as ‘modern technology.’”
His elicited the biggest laugh.
Crocker asked, “You hear the one about the Army general, Marine general, and Navy admiral?”
