by Don Mann
Why? What do I care what journalists or anyone else thinks of me? Where were they when my friends and I were being held in captivity?
So little of what she had experienced fit into other people’s narratives. It was hers and she embraced it and wanted to learn from her experience. If other people expected her to think of herself as a victim, and act like one, she wouldn’t. She didn’t feel that way.
Her parents had taught her that the real world is what it is. Sometimes it was violent and unpredictable. The role of an honest person was to try to understand it. And maybe out of that understanding could come positive change.
Chichima burned with energy as she lay in the dark. She felt the souls of her ancestors stir around her.
She didn’t want to be imprisoned, coddled, or protected the way she was now.
Longing to connect with someone, she closed the book and opened her laptop and started searching. Gossip and beauty tips didn’t interest her. When she reached the Vanguard news site, she read for the first time about the crisis in Utorogu, and connected immediately with the terror and hopelessness the hostages were experiencing there.
Once again, it sounded as though the government was making excuses and being passive. Journalists and citizens were standing apart and watching like viewers of a motorcar race or circus.
Compelled to at the very least express her frustration, Chichima logged in to the popular Nigerian social media website Nairaland.com and wrote the following:
My fellow Nigerians…My name is Chichima and I’m one of what are popularly known as the Sambisa girls. Yes, I was one of the many schoolgirls who were held as slaves and hostages of Boko Haram.
As I read now about the crisis at the Utorogu gas plant, all my feelings of anger, frustration, and hopelessness return again. Once again our government and our military claim that they are unable to take action to free the hostages! They said the same when me and my fellow schoolmates were being raped and brainwashed in the Sambisa Forest.
My fellow citizens…When are we going to say that this is unacceptable? When are we going to make our voices heard and remind our government and our military that their primary responsibility is to protect the people who live and work in Nigeria?
When are we going to make them realize that people—living, breathing people, whether poor and disenfranchised or rich and politically powerful—are more important than principles or ideas?
When ideas become more valued than people, all of us become irrelevant. Petition the government to free the hostages at Utorogu! Make your voices heard!
“It’s like trying to raid an army base with a can opener,” cracked one of the British Gulf security officers.
“That’s why we have to be creative and as precise as we possibly can.” Crocker glanced at the clock over the blackboard at the front of the room, which was covered with a map of the plant. It read 1943 local time—a little more than four hours from the terrorists’ deadline.
“And willing to take bloody insane risks,” another of the Brits offered.
They sat in a tight cluster snacking on sunflower seeds and water. All six were heavily tattooed and had bulging muscles, which qualified them as workout warriors. Crocker didn’t know what they had to offer in terms of operational prowess. His brain was so shredded with exhaustion that he was having trouble remembering their names.
“Risk is good,” Akil said, challenging them with his eyes.
“Whatever, mate…”
“I’m serious.”
Crocker cleared his throat. His voice had turned hoarse. “Any of you guys familiar with the plant?”
Two of them pointed to a colleague slumped in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and a black Maserati hat pulled over his eyes.
“Reg spent six months in Utu…Yo, Reg, wake up!”
He snorted awake and his colleagues chuckled.
Crocker thought as time pressed him, This is like herding cats.
The compact guy in the Maserati hat sat up. Had the build of a wrestler—thick torso, short arms and legs. “Sorry, mate. Got zero sleep last night. What’d you ask?”
“I hear you know the plant.”
“Yeah, yeah, Chief…I worked with Moxie, Rufus, and the mates…A year and a half. That’s the reason I’m here. You think there’s a chance any of them are still alive?”
Crocker shook his head. “Sadly…no.”
Reg kicked the empty chair in front of him so that it slid across the floor and hit the wall. “Bloody fucking bollocks!” Then quickly composed himself. “What’s the question?”
“We’re trying to figure out where the hostages are being held…and working on the assumption that the majority of them are gathered in the same location.”
“Yeah…Yeah. Sounds about right.”
“Our informed guess at this point is that they’re located in the expat dorms.”
“Yeah, mate. Makes sense.”
“What can you tell us about the two towers?”
Reg sat up, removed the hat, and scratched his head, which was covered with short sandy-colored hair.
“Towers? Hardly…Both three stories…Kind of a bland grayish aluminum siding.”
The biggest of the six Brits cut in. Tall good-looking guy with tribal tats running up both arms. “Don’t be daft, Reg. Like anyone gives two shits about the décor.”
“Up yours, Potter…” he said, then, turning back to Crocker, “Entrances fore and aft. Zero fortification if that’s what you’re asking. In other words, common as dirt…Made by a company called Alibaba…Prefab…I was there when they went up. About twelve rooms each floor with two bathrooms and showers.”
“Good. Continue…”
“Building A, the one closest to the gate, has an office and large lobby-slash-reception room on the first floor. Very basic. Several steps down from a Marriott.…Sucks about Scott and the mates.”
“And the other building?”
Potter said softly, “Focus, Reg.”
“I’m trying…Building B. A little entrance on the first floor, and a steam room, and rec area with lockers on the second.”
It matched Captain Sutter’s description of the area where Mancini was hiding.
“So the only place that could accommodate twenty-some hostages would be the lobby of Building A?”
“Yeah, Chief. That’s correct.”
“Okay, Reg. That’s good…Very good. We’re making progress.”
When Crocker looked up from the notes he was taking, he saw Alf Knutsen standing in the door holding a satellite phone.
“Who is it?” Crocker asked.
“Your commander.”
“Find out what he wants.”
“He says it’s an emergency. He needs to talk to you now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“War has no eyes.”
—Swahili proverb
Tiny saw three of the terrorists—Pinche, Coñazo, and the dark-skinned leader he’d nicknamed Chingado—standing over Mancini slumped against the wall to his left. They fed him water from a plastic bottle, then emptied the rest over his head.
Chingado stepped back and laughed. Tiny wanted to carve him a new one, but was more concerned about Manny and his condition. Prayed he’d hold on. When the terrorists backed away, he saw his big teammate breathing and sitting up.
Filled him with hope. He’d always admired Manny, how he conducted himself in the teams, constantly fed his brain, appreciated his family, and enjoyed life. Now if he could only get some sign of recognition from him, he wouldn’t feel so alone. But the skin around his teammate’s eyes was so badly swollen, Tiny wasn’t sure he could see.
Noticed the other jihadist leader, who he’d dubbed Aaron because of his resemblance to the former NFL player and convicted murderer Aaron Hernandez, waving from the office door.
Chingado joined him, and the slight terrorist with the round glasses popped his head out. Then Aaron whispered something to Chingado and the three men entered the office and closed the
door behind them.
What the fuck is going on?
Tiny focused on the watch on Pinche’s wrist, halfway across the room. Made out the space between the hands at the top. Seeing the narrow strip of white between them, decided that it was almost 2300.
Said to himself: Something’s up.
Crocker was trying his best to temper his anger. People removed from the field almost never understood the full emotional dimension of things on the ground.
They tended to see crises through the lenses of policy and strategic goals. The policy that distorted their vision now was the US and Nigerian governments’ refusal to negotiate with terrorists.
Crocker understood the reasoning behind it. But public policy and behind-the-scenes negotiations were separate in his mind.
Captain Sutter had just informed him that Gulf Oil officials were talking to the terrorists and close to reaching a deal.
“They’re in direct communication?” Crocker asked through the satellite phone.
“Yes, and have been for some time.”
“Why are the terrorists talking to them, and not us?”
“Because it’s their plant, and their employees,” responded Sutter. “I don’t see why it matters.”
“Because Gulf has their interests, and we’ve got ours.”
“They’re the same, Crocker!”
“How do we know if we’re not even part of the conversation?”
“It’s not your business…This is positive news. I expected you to take it that way.”
Crocker was trying hard not to let his emotions get in the way. “Have you heard the specific terms?”
“No. Not yet.”
“We’ve got less than an hour.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Akil and I are standing by. We’ve recruited a half-dozen volunteers, and we’re ready to take the plant if needed.”
“With eight men? Are you insane?”
“No.”
Sutter exhaled deeply on the other end. “Crocker, I’ve always admired your courage and determination. But now we’re dealing with a very fluid, volatile situation. Things could change at the last minute. The important thing to understand is that you’re not to do anything without Nigerian military approval.”
“We can’t anyway, so no need to worry.”
“Are we clear about that, Crocker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better yet, why don’t you and Akil get some rest and let the Nigerians handle this?”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Neither one of us will be able to sleep until our teammates and the rest of the hostages are safe.”
Inside the office of Building A, Abu Abbas, Umar Amine, and Festus Ratty sat around the desk, waiting for a call from Victor Balt. Forty minutes ago, Abu Abbas had conveyed the news that Gulf Oil–Holland had agreed to wire $40 million into Balt’s numbered UAE bank account if the Written in Blood terrorists abandoned the plant and left all the national gas pumping and processing equipment undamaged.
The terrorists had also been promised safe passage to Cameroon.
Now the three jihadists were waiting for confirmation from Victor Balt that the money had arrived in the escrow account.
Festus Ratty was the only one of the three who didn’t seem pleased. He said, “I don’t trust the Westerners. Never will.”
Umar Amine nodded as he rubbed his jaw. “Me neither.”
Now Abu Abbas spoke. “Balt said that once the money is released from the UAE escrow account, he will quickly move it to other secure accounts that can’t be touched. He knows his business.”
“When will it be released?” Festus Ratty asked.
“Midnight. Balt will let us know.”
Festus Ratty shook his head. He still had doubts. “What prevents the Nigerians from attacking us as we leave?”
Umar Amine winced from the pain in his mouth. “They double-cross us, we can always destroy the plant remotely using a cell signal.”
Abbas said, “Part of the deal with Gulf is that we turn off the flow of gas before we leave. They will be able to confirm that from the burn-off stacks.”
“We can always detonate the other explosives.”
“And,” Festus Ratty suggested, “we can take as many hostages as we can hold in our trucks to serve as human shields.”
“I like that idea. But what do we do with them when we reach the Cameroon border?” Umar Amine asked.
“Whatever we want.”
“We can use them for propaganda purposes,” Abu Abbas suggested. “Then we either release them or sell them back to the Westerners.”
Umar Amine started to smile, but the pain from his teeth stopped him.
Festus Ratty waved his arms vigorously. “No, no, brother…I have a better idea. We shoot them. We kill all the hostages as a final ‘fuck you’ to the infidels!”
Umar Amine frowned as though he objected. But before he could express anything, the phone rang.
Abu Abbas answered in English, “Yes.”
The other jihadists’ eyes locked on him as he listened.
Half a minute later, Abu Abbas said politely, “Thank you,” and hung up the phone.
“That was Victor. He says the deal is done. The money is ours!”
“All $40 million?” asked Umar Amine.
“Yes.”
Festus Ratty shouted in triumph and the three men embraced and danced around the room like schoolkids, shouting “Allahu Akbar!” over and over.
At 2311 hours, Colonel Nwosu remained in the Mobile Command Center twelve kilometers outside the plant. He’d recently showered and changed from his uniform into a blue Puma warm-up suit he’d received for his birthday. Now he was sipping broth out of a coffee mug and cursing Gulf Oil officials under his breath. Crocker sat, hands grasped in front of him on an upholstered bench.
“Colonial attitudes never change, my friend…They’re so deeply entrenched in the European mindset they aren’t even aware…”
“I believe you, Colonel,” Crocker said. “But I’m worried about the hostages. Based on what you’ve told me about the agreement, the disposition of the hostages isn’t clear.”
“No, Chief. It’s not clear. Nothing is clear except the orders I have from my government to cooperate with the agreement, and to guarantee the terrorists safe passage to Cameroon once they leave the plant.”
“Then what happens?” Crocker asked.
“It’s out of our hands. The Cameroons will not cooperate with us, so there’s nothing to discuss.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing in the agreement that is more specific about the hostages?”
Colonel Nwosu picked up a printout from in front of the monitors and handed it to Crocker. “Here…Read it yourself.”
Crocker read:
Written in Blood agrees to relinquish control of the Utorogu Gas Plant and leave the entire gas pumping and processing plant and its assets intact, and abandon it by 0001 Sunday. In return, Gulf Oil–Holland agrees to transfer $xx,xxx,xxx to a secure numbered account provided by the representative of Written in Blood, and the Nigerian government promises the safe passage of Written in Blood commandos across the Cameroon border. At that point all hostages still under Written in Blood’s control will be released.
Crocker let the document fall to the floor and shook his head. “This assumes the terrorists are taking some of the hostages with them.”
“Yes.”
“What’s to prevent them from killing them once they reach Cameroon?”
“I wasn’t consulted. I don’t know.”
“The money has already been transferred?”
“That’s my understanding. Yes.”
Crocker squeezed his head between his hands. “This is a disaster.”
“I’m ashamed to say that some officials in my government have probably accepted money for their compliance. And, then, there’s this…”
Colonel Nwosu removed another documen
t from the counter and handed it to Crocker. It was a printout of the blog Chichima had posted on Nairaland.com.
“What about it?”
“Look at the number of likes. More than two million in less than three hours. My government won’t be pleased about this, either. They’re going to be looking for someone to blame.”
Crocker got a little satisfaction when he recognized the name as one of the rescued schoolgirls he had recently seen at Yola.
He said, “Colonel, the agreement seems to assume that at least some of the hostages are going to die, one way or another. You realize that, don’t you?”
The two men’s eyes met, and Colonel Nwosu slowly nodded, yes.
“Will you allow me and my men to pass through your lines and raid the plant and free the hostages before the terrorists leave?”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but that’s impossible. The terrorists will blow the plant sky high and everyone will die.”
“What if we promise to disarm the terrorists’ explosives before we attack the plant?”
“How the hell will you do that?”
Crocker ran from the Mobile Command Post to the schoolhouse across the street where Akil and the six Brits were checking their gear, and Alf Knutsen, Eito, and Kazumi waited to lend their assistance.
“What’s up?” Akil answered.
Crocker crossed straight over to the corner where Knutsen was standing, talking on a cell, and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“I need you to get your hands on a cell and radio jammer immediately!”
Knutsen terminated the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.
“Where?”
“I have no idea. But I need one! It’s critical.”
Knutsen consulted with Eito and Kazumi and the three men tore off.
