by Don Mann
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that you and Akil are safe and sound.”
“Safe, yes, but not sound until we get our teammates out.”
“Dammit, Crocker…”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Colonel Nwosu was feeling sorry for himself as he paced the narrow trailer. “They’ve put me in an impossible position, Chief. Absolutely impossible…If I could resign right now, I would. As soon as this nightmare is over, I’m going to retire and return to my farm. No more military or politics…”
Crocker finished the soup and set down the empty cup. “Colonel, I understand your distress. I feel it, too. It’s our job to focus on the challenges we face now. Maybe you’re right, and the situation is near impossible. But you and I are going to change that.”
The colonel grimaced and took another sip of scotch. “How? Are you a magician with a magic wand?”
“Colonel, I believe in myself, and my teammates, and the power of good over evil.”
“Nice words…Very nice…”
Crocker got to his feet and stood in the Colonel’s path. “Let’s agree to no more regrets about our situation. Let’s accept the reality for what it is, sir, and figure out what we can do.”
“You’re an interesting man.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned from surveillance, and from people who know the plant.”
Colonel Nwosu shook his head. “It’s not a good picture. It’s confusing and incomplete.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The colonel snapped his long fingers at a military aide and pointed to a stack of still pictures on a counter along a row of monitors. The uniformed aide brought them and set them on a little round table. Colonel Nwosu pointed to a chair and nodded to Crocker, who sat. The colonel examined the photos first.
“They’re no good,” he said with disgust. “It’s the same poorly engineered drone that for two whole years couldn’t locate the girls in the Sambisa Forest. Here…”
Crocker examined the surveillance photos using a magnifying glass provided by the aide. Indeed, many of them were out of focus, or partially cut off by a thick black bar, and all of them had been taken at high altitude. Still, with the use of the magnifier, he was able to identify some important features of the plant.
He gestured to Akil to join him. The colonel stood, gazing out a small rectangular window.
“You can tell their personnel concentrations by the placement of the technicals. Here, at the front gate…Here, around the expat dorms…And at the south end near the plant control room…”
“They’re pretty spread out.”
“I count six technicals…So we’re probably looking at something like forty fighters.”
“Yeah.” Akil scratched the thick growth of beard on his chin. “Like I said before…they’re very spread out.”
“Only one technical at the front gate.”
“The entire plant is probably rigged with explosives…”
“I saw some barrels before, but they’re hard to make out,” Crocker said, pointing to one of the clear photos of the expat dorms and plaza. “See.…”
Akil nodded. “Boss, I’m starting to get a picture…The tangos are smart. They’ve got no illusions that the government will concede to their demands, and are ready to blow up the entire plant.”
“It appears that way, right?”
“And I don’t think they’re expecting a raid…Not the way they’re spread out.”
“Maybe not…”
Crocker looked up at the colonel, who was holding a tumbler of scotch. He asked, “Colonel, when were these taken?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Approximately 1600 hours.”
“Where’s the drone now?”
“It’s at a base near here, being repaired. The navigation system isn’t working.”
“What kind of drone is it?” asked Akil.
“A Tsaigumi,” the colonel answered.
Akil looked at Crocker and shrugged. Neither of them had ever heard of it.
“What’s the likelihood you can deploy another, or get that one patched up and airborne?”
Colonel Nwosu groaned and shook his head.
At 1221 Saturday Festus Ratty Kumar twitched with excitement as he sat across from Umar Amine in the office of Building A. The two jihadists were discussing what action to take at midnight if and when the Nigerian government refused to meet their demands.
Umar Amine, a devout man, was prepared to blow up the plant and sacrifice himself and his men to the cause of jihad should the Nigerians not concede.
Festus had other ideas, which he expressed with almost delirious energy. “My brother…My good brother…This is the moment of opportunity. The sword of the Messenger is in our hands. The whole world is watching!”
Umar Amine frowned. Not only had his molars been bothering him all day, but Festus Ratty’s reference to the Messenger Mohammad concerned him. He’d taken two Motrin for the tooth pain, and now he swallowed another with a swig of water mixed with vinegar, which he kept in a bottle tied to his belt.
Festus Ratty pointed to his head. “I receive messages, too. And the message I have received says there is a way to destroy the plant and punish the infidels, and outwit them at the same time.”
“What are you talking about, brother?” Umar Amine asked.
“I’m talking about surviving this situation so we can continue to fight the crusaders in the future. Allah wants that…Our alliance pleases him and our mission isn’t over.”
“Does he tell you how to achieve this?”
“He does…” Festus Ratty opened Google Maps on his laptop and zoomed in on southeastern Nigeria. “As you can see, Brother Umar, we’re only forty kilometers from the Cameroon border. Forty kilometers is nothing!”
“Forty kilometers is forty kilometers.”
“I know a path through the brush that will get us to the border quickly. They call me the Leopard, and I know this terrain like the back of my hand.”
“Have you forgotten about the Nigerian soldiers who are probably surrounding us now? If you know the path, my brother, they’ll know it, too.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten them. It’s important, as we’ve discussed before, to know our enemies. And I know them.”
“Of course.”
Umar Amine remained skeptical of any of Festus Ratty’s plans. It was hard to accept him as someone chosen by Allah. Instead, he clung to the belief that angels and beautiful virgins would be waiting for him near a fountain beyond the gates of heaven.
Mischief danced in Festus’s eyes, his face and body animated as though possessed by a spirit. “Brother Amine…Oh, my brother…Here is the truth: when the plant explodes the Nigerian soldiers will be in shock. They’ll be unprepared for what comes next.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Festus Ratty pointed to his forehead. “I can see these things unfolding…I’ve been granted this power. Once we set off the first explosions, the military will rush into the compound and try to rescue the hostages. They already have orders in place to do that…”
“How can you be sure?”
“I know…So we will deliberately spare the expat dorms so they think there is an opportunity to save the hostages there.”
“And then what happens?”
Ratty’s enthusiasm grew. “This is the most clever part, brother Amine. Listen carefully…” He pulled his chair to within inches of Amine for dramatic effect.
“We leave the compound a few minutes before the explosion, and we set it off remotely by phone…Our trucks are already painted to resemble Nigerian vehicles, and we’re wearing army uniforms, so it will be confusing, yes? We leave through the gate behind the gas plant.”
Umar Amine rubbed his jaw as he half-listened. The pain clouded his brain.
“The Nigerians will be confused. They won’t be expecting that. We leave, they rush into the north side of the compound, and the explosions go off. Ka-boom! Everything is panic and
chaos. Meanwhile, we’re riding in our trucks toward the Cameroon border. I will even call some of my local fighters and get them to clear a path for us. It’s brilliant, yes?”
“It’s interesting…” Umar Amine said. He was a careful man who didn’t like to jump into things unprepared. “What about the hostages? Will they all die in the explosion?”
Festus Ratty jumped to his feet. “No! We will take some of the hostages to use as bargaining chips, and eliminate the others before we leave!”
“Eliminate them?”
“Shoot them. Yes.”
“And what happens when the Nigerians launch their airplanes and helicopters?”
“Brother, I am clever. Their closest base is Makurdi, which is at least fifteen to twenty minutes away by air. By the time they get here, we’ll be across the border in Cameroon. And, if for some reason their planes arrive quicker, the land we’ll be passing through is covered with trees.”
“If their planes are in the air already, they will find us.”
“And we have missiles that can shoot them down!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“A wise person will always find a way.”
—Tanzanian proverb
At 1640, Crocker sat with Utorogu plant managers Alf Knutsen and Mark Greenway in a little schoolroom across from where the Eagle Mobile Military Command Post was parked. An energy bar in one hand, a can of Coke in the other, he listened as Greenway related the latest report from Gulf Oil headquarters, which was basically advising everyone to stand down.
They don’t get it, he thought. Standing down isn’t an option. It cedes complete control to the terrorists, and that’s not smart.
Crocker saw Akil trying to get past the two soldiers guarding the door.
He shouted, “He’s with us. Let him in.” Then turning to Greenway, “Excuse me for interrupting.”
His head hurt from all the confusing talk, his own exhaustion, and the many actors and moving parts. What he really wanted to do was get a consensus on a plan and start putting it into motion. But crisis moments like this were never easy. Fear, preconceived ideas, nerves, and limited options and resources always figured into the outcome. He knew that his goals had to be clear, and whatever action he chose to take to achieve them, he shouldn’t expect support.
Akil whispered, “Spoke to CT. He says hoo-yah.”
“He okay?”
Akil raised a thumb. “He’s hanging in there.”
“Tiny and Mancini?”
Akil shook his head.
Greenway repeated the message from Gulf, and Crocker frowned, thinking that he’d try Mancini again as soon as this was over. In a part of his brain, he’d been concerned about him the whole time. Knew that his longtime teammate hadn’t been right since the action near the border.
Rubbing blood into his face, Crocker said, “I don’t know what that means,” when Greenway finished.
The red-haired American looked annoyed. “It means they’re talking.”
“Who’s talking?”
“Gulf Oil company officials and the jihadists.”
“The Gulf Oil official you spoke to said that?”
“Not in those exact words. But he implied it.”
“Come on, Mark…People’s lives are at stake. Things have to get more specific.”
“It means Gulf is advising us to stand down and not interfere with whatever they’ve got under way. Why is that so hard to understand?”
Crocker sat on the impulse to go for Greenway’s throat. Took a deep breath. “First thing…Don’t ever speak to me like that again. Second, while you’re speculating on what your bosses are or aren’t doing, the terrorists are holding twenty hostages and there are another twenty or more very frightened people hiding inside the compound. Two of them are my teammates. Nobody’s going to tell me not to interfere when I don’t know what they’re doing.”
Greenway swallowed hard. “Like I said before…they’re talking, they’re negotiating. I assume that means that they’re close to some kind of resolution.”
“You assume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell you the truth…I don’t really give a fuck what Gulf Oil wants me to assume. My goal is to get every single one of the hostages out of there alive.”
Greenway, his face red, rose to his feet and started to leave. Akil stopped him and pointed to a metal chair.
“Sit down.”
Greenway obeyed.
Crocker continued, “I’m going to start making plans, and I’m going to press hard to get it done. You can cooperate if you want, or you can decide not to. That’s up to you. But if you, or Gulf, or anyone else tries to get in my way, you’ll have hell to pay. Make no mistake about that.”
A kind of resigned monotony had set in. Tiny could see it on the faces of the terrorists and hostages alike. He’d seen it in the two leaders who occupied the office to his right, and strode out every twenty minutes or so, to go outside, or bark orders into their radios.
The energetic smaller man with the crazy eyes—who he’d named Chingazo—struck him as violent and unpredictable. The other taller, lighter-skinned man worried him more. He had the vacant look of either a psychopath, or someone who was resigned to some kind of violent, apocalyptic ending, or both.
Then suddenly a pale, spectacled terrorist hurried into the office as though he was carrying important news. He left an electric current of expectation that hung in the air.
Something’s up.
Through the open front door, he saw the sky starting to darken. Tiny was exhausted, his mouth and throat were parched, and his empty stomach throbbed, but he still didn’t think of his situation as hopeless.
I gotta keep looking for opportunities, he thought, aware that it might seem ridiculous given the fact that he wore a C4 necklace around his neck and had his wrists chained behind his back.
I’ve gotta be prepared for whatever comes.
It came as no surprise to Crocker that after the meeting Greenway stormed off and his fellow assistant plant manager Alf Knutsen offered to cooperate.
“He’s not a bad person, really,” the tall Norwegian explained. “None of us are used to handling this kind of pressure.”
Akil removed the pretzel from his mouth and said, “I don’t trust him.”
Crocker was more diplomatic. “I get it. I’ve been in hostage situations before. I know that parties box themselves into corners, and things get weird as the clock ticks down. The important thing is not to lose sight of the human suffering of those caught in the middle.”
“I respect that,” opined Knutsen.
“Akil and I are going to need help.”
Knutsen said, “I have some positive news in that regard. There are about a half dozen security officers from other Gulf facilities south who have volunteered to lend their services. Most of them know Moxie and Rufus and some served with them in the Royal Marines.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re waiting in a town nearby. You want me to call them?”
“Please. Contact them now and ask them to meet us here a-sap. I’m going to set up shop in this room and start looking at contingencies.”
“Does Colonel Nwosu know about this?”
“He knows we’re exploring other options.”
Knutsen swallowed so hard his teeth clicked together. “You’re actually thinking of raiding the plant?”
“Yes.”
“You think the Nigerians will help you?”
“Probably not.”
“So how is your plan going to work?”
Crocker shook his head. “I don’t know yet.”
Akil saw the concerned look on the Norwegian’s face. “Nothing’s impossible.”
“I’m not sure why I’m saying this, but I believe you…What can I do to help?”
Crocker started to compose a list. “We’re gonna need weapons, ammo, radios, grenades, smoke bombs, explosives, armored vests, flares, cell phone and radio jamming equipment, and a
very detailed schematic of the plant. I’m sure there’s more…We’re also going to need your ideas and guidance on how to gain entrance to the control room, and how to turn off the gas.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Akil said, “Part of the plan is to get out alive.”
The Norwegian grinned. “Of course.”
“There’s a beautiful woman staying in an inn nearby and I plan to make love to her later tonight,” added Akil.
“I understand.”
CT was on the phone with Crocker. Saw Sally standing at the window, peering through the closed blinds toward the front of the building.
Whispered, “You see something?”
She turned and shook her head. “Just darkness.”
“Where’s Pagon?” CT asked, referring to the French manager who had been hiding with them.
Sally answered, “He’s across the hall watching the back of the building.”
“Good.” Then CT turned his attention to Crocker on the phone. “Sorry, boss.”
“Everything stable?”
“Yes.”
Crocker asked about CT’s specific location in terms of access to the plant control room, how he was armed, and his physical condition.
After CT answered his questions, he asked, “What’s the plan?”
Crocker hesitated, then remembered the satellite phone was encrypted so the terrorists couldn’t be listening. “We’re gonna strike around midnight, and we’re gonna need your help. I’ll call with specifics later. Let me know immediately if anything changes in or around the plant.”
“Roger that.”
Chichima’s dorm room was dark except for the little pool of light from her reading lamp. One of her three roommates snored gently in the bunk below. The book that had been assigned for her literature class—Beloved by Toni Morrison—lay open in front of her. Even though the story of Sethe held many parallels to her own, Chichima had a hard time relating.
Her memories weren’t filled with longing and regret like Sethe’s were in the book. Hers burned with intensity to the point that her brain felt like it was about to explode and her entire forehead was on fire. The experience in the Sambisa had become part of her and would never go away. Nor did she feel any need to deny it, or feel sorry for herself, or turn herself into an object of pity.
