Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  “That’s for scaring me.”

  The noise of the explosion reached them a second before the concussion blasted the two out of the shaft, sending them rolling into the bushes beneath the trees. Jamal tumbled over Selma, who started screaming. His left shoe hit her on the chin bringing the screaming to an abrupt halt. The left side of his face slammed into the dirt, causing his legs to catapult over his head, carrying his body into the thick bushes beneath the copse of trees.

  He lay there a few seconds, blinking. He touched his chest, straining to take a full breath. After several tries, the effects of the concussion wore off, normal breathing resumed, and Jamal sat up. He rubbed his eyes, blinked rapidly to clear them. Squinting, he put both hands on the ground and pushed himself up, using a nearby tree to steady his shaking legs.

  Faint starlight filtered through the leaves of the trees reflecting off the green-patterned dress that Selma was wearing. He stumbled toward the crumpled heap that was his sister, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard whimpering.

  He squatted and shook her gently. “Are you all right?”

  She moaned. “I told you not to push me,” she whined through tears. “I’m going to tell Momma.”

  “I didn’t push you.”

  “Uh-uh, and you hurt me.”

  “Can you stand, Selma?” he asked, taking her by the arm and pulling her up carefully. He rose to one knee.

  She jerked away. “I can get up on my own.”

  “Keep your voice down, Selma. I didn’t push you. Something blew us out of the shaft.”

  His sister rolled over and moaned. “That hurt,” she said, sitting up. An orange glow flickered across her face.

  Jamal scrambled to the edge of the ditch and looked toward the house. Flames leaped from the wooden frame, licking through the roof and through a large hole from where the back of the house had been. Looking right and left, Jamal saw the houses along the row with his burning. Another explosion, this one a few blocks away, caught his attention. He watched as flames and debris shot into the air.

  “Look at the house,” Selma complained. “I want Momma and Daddy.”

  “Come on, Selma. We’ve got to get to Uncle Nathan’s and tell him.”

  Jamal, holding Selma’s hand, led the way as they leapfrogged over jungle debris, keeping to the edge of the American expatriate suburb of New Carrollton. The two stumbled along the jungle curtain that abruptly separated the dwindling jungle on the outskirts of Monrovia from the growing presence of Americans. His eyes roved back and forth. He was expecting at any moment for someone to jump out and grab them. They sneaked along the back of the houses, all of them in flames. He saw the home of his friend Sam as he and Selma hurried by it. He pulled her down abruptly as a group of shouting men ran around the side of Sam’s house. One of them was laughing and waving something that looked like a head.

  Jamal pulled Selma farther into the jungle, crouching there until the men disappeared toward the front.

  Satisfied they were gone, Jamal tugged her up and they continued toward Uncle Nathan’s house. He glanced back and saw a group of men standing in a circle kicking at something on the ground.

  The two siblings moved through the jungle, sometimes hiding as Africans appeared on their right. Groups of men running from the front of one house to another, silhouettes breaking the shadows for a moment before they disappeared, blocked by the next house. Periodically, bursts of gunfire broke the jungle quiet from the nearby housing complex. Each time, Jamal increased their speed, wanting to put distance between them and the fighting.

  Selma’s patterned dress and Jamal’s blue jeans helped the two blend with the maze of grays, blacks, and shadows along the edge of the nighttime jungle. Jamal’s white shirt had long ago been camouflaged by the dirt, vegetation, and clay the two had fought through.

  The rebels never saw them even as, unknown to Jamal and Selma, searching eyes roamed the jungle edges looking for Americans who might have escaped the massacre. Even if the rebels had seen them, it was doubtful the Africans would have passed up the opportunity to loot the more affluent American houses before their Arab masters torched them.

  Eventually, the fighting and fires fell behind as Jamal and Selma circled toward Uncle Nathan’s. Four hours had passed since they left their Mom in the basement when the two weary children saw the circle of homes, one of which belonged to their uncle Nathan. Jamal stopped and squatted.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Be quiet, Selma. Need to make sure it is safe to go.”

  She jerked her hand away. “I’m tired and I gotta pee.”

  “Then pee here.”

  “No way. You’ll peek.”

  Jamal sighed. “Okay, come on. It’s dark and we haven’t seen anyone for a long time.”

  He stood, reaching down to take her hand. The body slam hit him hard, knocking him onto the ground. Selma started screaming, shouting for Uncle Nathan. The man who hit him put his knee on Jamal’s back and pressed down. “Shut up,” the American voice said.

  Selma continued to scream.

  “Selma, that you, honey?”

  Jamal felt the pressure from the knee in his back ease up.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know who it was,” the voice said, standing up, freeing Jamal.

  Jamal fought to keep the tears back. Selma’s dress flapped as she ran toward the figure of Uncle Nathan. The person on top of Jamal moved away. Jamal pushed himself into a sitting position and put his hand against his chest, taking several deep breaths. A pair of hands reached under his arms, lifted him, and then released him. He nearly fell. A wave of fatigue rushed over him. His eyes shut for a moment before he opened them, realizing he had nearly fallen asleep standing up.

  A hand reached out and steadied Jamal. “Whoa, buddy,” the person who had tackled him said, holding Jamal by the arm. “Sorry about that. I could tell you were a kid, but didn’t know you were Jerry’s boy.”

  Jamal jerked his arm away and headed toward Uncle Nathan.

  Selma had her arms wrapped around her uncle’s legs. Uncle Nathan stood there patting her on the back with his right hand. In the left, he held an M-16 rifle. Thomas had seen the weapon in his uncle’s bedroom closet. His dad had one also.

  “Jamal, are we glad to see you, son,” Uncle Nathan said, his eyes roving the darkness behind Jamal.

  The sound of gunfire to the south drew their attention.

  “Kafla,” Uncle Nathan said, speaking to the young man who had tackled Thomas and who was now dogging his steps. “Take Jamal and Selma to the cars and find them a seat.”

  His uncle let go of Selma and reached out for Jamal. “Jamal, where’s your mom and dad and Abdul?”

  “They’re back at the house, Uncle Nathan. Mom says for you to come quick and bring help. There are people inside, Uncle Nathan, and if you don’t come quick, they may kill—”

  “I understand, Jamal,” his uncle replied, a hint of sadness in the answer. “You remember how to shoot a rifle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kafla, give him a gun,” he ordered the man standing behind Thomas. “Jamal, you go with Kafla and listen to him. You and Selma stay with him.”

  “Uncle Nathan, Mommy says—” Jamal said, thinking maybe Uncle Nathan hadn’t understood what he had said.

  “Jamal, we’ll try to check before we go,” Nathan said, his voice catching.

  “Go?”

  Nathan shook his head. “Son, they’ve either made it and are working their way this way, or . . .” Nathan stopped, leaned down, and unwrapped his niece’s arms from around his leg. “Selma, you go with your brother and Mr. Kafla here. They’re going to take you to a car and find you a seat. We’re leaving Monrovia tonight.”

  “What about Momma and Daddy?” Jamal asked falling into step beside Uncle Nathan as they hurriedly walked through the dark toward the front of the houses that circled this small cul de sac in the suburb of New Carrollton. “Momma and Daddy were there when we left, Uncle Nathan. Maybe they
’re following us?”

  “Maybe they are, Jamal. Let’s hope so, and if they did by some miracle make it out, then they’ll catch up with us. Your daddy, my brother Jerry, knows the plans if we ever had to flee. He’ll know where we’re going and how we intended to go. They’ll catch up.”

  Jamal jerked away from him. “You don’t think they made it out like Selma and me, do you?”

  “Jamal, I can’t expect someone your age to understand, but the government has fallen. President Jefferson is dead and African rebels led by Arab fanatics are overrunning the city, killing Americans wherever they find them. We’re heading to Kingsville. If Jerry, Ullma, and Abdul are alive, they’ll meet us in Kingsville.”

  Jamal looked at the jungle edge. Kingsville! Last year he had gone with his parents to visit this African-American town. A small piece of the United States hacked out of the jungle by retired U.S. Army Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston. Even his father had called the man “General.” Everyone did, and he remembered his father lightly slapping the back of Jamal’s head, after shaking the man’s hand when this Thomaston walked by, and whispering for Jamal to stand. Everyone in the community center had stood and waited as the “general,” who had led so many African-Americans back to their roots in Liberia, entered. Jamal had even shaken the general’s hand, and the general had asked him his name, what grade he was in, and what he wanted to be when he grew up, before moving off to talk with others. He wondered if the general would remember him. Uncle Nathan was right. General Thomaston would kick these rebels’ asses from here to kingdom come.

  A group of men, shouting, came running down the road toward them.

  “Nathan! Can’t hold them. More showing up by the minute.”

  A whistling sound, increasing in intensity, drew everyone’s attention. Heads spun upward, searching the night sky, and then the sound headed downward. A nearby house exploded as the mortar shell hit. The concussion knocked Jamal off his feet. It wasn’t as bad as when Kafla tackled him minutes ago. Flames shot out of the roof of the house as pieces of it spun crazily in all directions.

  “We’ve got to go,” Nathan said.

  Jamal stopped and watched his uncle march a few more steps before turning to face him. “I’ve got to go back and see if I can find Daddy and Momma,” Jamal said.

  Nathan walked back and took Jamal by both shoulders. “Son, if you do, then you’ll just get lost. If your parents are alive, they’ll find you at Kingsville. If they don’t, then I’ll come back with you and we’ll find them. But right now, we’ve got to get out if we want to live.”

  Jamal stared up at Uncle Nathan, their eyes meeting. A couple of seconds passed before Jamal nodded. Nathan let him go.

  Nathan motioned the men running toward them toward the houses at the rear, shouting, “Get everyone in the cars!” Jamal ran behind him. Uncle Nathan moved at a half trot, touching people on the shoulders as they ran past, urging others to pick up the pace. The two of them headed toward the back of the farthermost house. Kafla, carrying Selma, ran to their left.

  “I want my SUV in front and the pickup truck bringing up the rear with the men on it. We’ve got to get the hell out of here, now!”

  Nathan glanced down at his nephew. “Go! Go with Kafla here,” he said, pointing toward the house at the end of the cul de sac.

  Kafla put Selma down. “Follow me!” Kafla ordered, and took off running.

  Jamal grabbed her hand and the two ran, trying to keep up with the young man who seemed intent on leaving them behind. Around the side of the house they sped. Kafla turned along a dirt road that disappeared into the bush behind the house. Another sharp curve and he stopped. Jamal counted four SUVs. People waited patiently for their turn to crawl into the large vehicles. The straining sound of an engine behind him caused Jamal to turn his head. A dark pickup truck appeared. Three men slid into each front seat of the five vehicles, each carrying a weapon.

  Other men began to appear from the dark shadows between the houses. Several pulled themselves into the pickup. Jamal looked around. Where was Kafla? He squeezed Selma’s hand tighter. A woman stuck her head out of the third SUV. “You two children. You get yourselves over here with us.” Her hand waved them toward her.

  Jamal pulled Selma with him as they hurried toward the outstretched hand. When they reached the SUV, the door opened and hands pulled Selma inside. Kafla appeared suddenly beside Jamal. “Here,” he said gruffly, handing Jamal a rifle. “Your uncle said give you one. It’s loaded, so don’t shoot your fool self.” The young man reached forward, shoved the door shut on the SUV, and leaned down beside the passenger-side window. “Keep up with the car in front of you,” he said to the driver. “Keep your lights off and don’t use your horn unless it’s an emergency.”

  Jamal stood there listening until Kafla turned to him. “You come with me. We’re going to put you in the next SUV,” he said, nodding toward the one in front of the Selma’s.

  Kafla walked quickly toward the front of the column with Jamal hurrying to keep up. A sudden explosion followed by the sound of automatic gunfire drowned out the noise of the convoy. Through the canopy of trees, a blast of bright light followed for a few seconds and then disappeared. Jamal glanced behind him. Selma was in a British Land Rover. He couldn’t read the front license plate, but noticed it was bent slightly at the top where something must at one time have caught it and pulled it down.

  Kafla’s foot hit the step of the second SUV. He opened the back door, and in one smooth motion motioned Jamal to climb inside it. Jamal watched as Kafla sprinted forward to the lead SUV and scrambled inside it. Why couldn’t he ride with Uncle Nathan?

  “Here, let me shut the door,” the woman sitting beside Jamal said, reaching over and pulling the door shut. The driver and an armed man sat in the front seat.

  Another armed man ran up to the far side of Uncle Nathan’s SUV, and stood alongside the idling SUV for a couple of seconds before jumping inside and slamming the door. Everyone was riding with Uncle Nathan but him.

  “Let’s go!” someone leaning out of the back window of the lead SUV shouted. That sounded like Uncle Nathan.

  The right door opened on Jamal’s SUV and a third man leaped into the front seat.

  The motor revved for a moment before the SUV lurched forward. Jamal nearly fell forward off his seat. The lady beside him leaned over.

  “Might be a good time to wear our seat belts,” she said nicely.

  Jamal mumbled a thank-you. So much had happened that he was confused. What was going on? Where were Mom and Dad? Uncle Nathan had said they were gone, but did he mean “gone as in gone” or “gone as in dead”? He shut his eyes. He refused to believe his mother and daddy were dead. Abdul, the bully, would never allow anyone to kill him. Of that, Jamal had no doubt.

  Behind him, a cacophony of screams and shouts were followed by the sharp sounds of gunfire, bangs, and explosions. His eyes flew open and his head whipped around toward the sounds. Tongues of orange flames reached upward illuminating the area. As far as he could see, the houses just on the other side of the row separating them from the attackers were burning.

  Another round of explosions followed, with the orange glow of the fires highlighting the fading horizon behind the darkened convoy of refugees as the vehicles penetrated farther into the darker jungle ahead. Jamal wasn’t sure where the road led, but he recalled hearing his father and Uncle Nathan talk about an old road behind Uncle Nathan’s house. They said the original diamond miners in this West African country of Liberia had used it. Probably built by some of the original American freed slaves who returned in the early nineteenth century.

  Jamal leaned back against the seat, cradling the rifle between his knees, his hands gripping it tightly, his thoughts playing havoc within his mind. He turned. The silhouette of the Land Rover where his sister rode was about twenty feet behind them. He reached up and ran his hand over the top of his short-cropped head.

  “Here, son,” the lady said, handing him a small washclot
h. “Use this to keep the sweat out of your eyes.”

  He nodded and took the terry cloth, running it across the top of his head and his brow. When he wiped his eyes, for some reason he failed to fathom, he discovered he was crying.

  “It’ll be all right,” the lady said, patting him on the knee.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. No, it wouldn’t be all right. It would never be all right again. He reached up and brushed the tears from his cheeks, turning his head toward the window, and hoping the lady was the only one who had noticed. It was okay for women to see you cry, but he didn’t want the other men to notice.

  Behind, a whistling sound of mortar rounds hitting the houses and the areas where the convoy had just left stilled the night sounds of the African rain forest. The small convoy drove deeper into the wilderness, leaving the chaos and mayhem of Monrovia behind them.

  Jamal shut his eyes and silently said a prayer for his mom and dad. His brother could take care of himself. Uncle Nathan was wrong. Maybe he didn’t say they were dead, but Jamal knew his uncle thought they were. But if they hadn’t made it out, then where were they? Sometime within the next hour, despite the rocking and jerking of the vehicle, Jamal fell asleep. Exhaustion overcame his worries and concerns.

  CHAPTER 2

  REAR ADMIRAL DICK HOLMAN, THE COMMANDER OF AMPHIBIOUS group two, paced the bridge wing of the USS Boxer. The complaints emanating from the other bridge wing by his Chief of Staff about the exercise brought a wry smile to his lips. Holman, former fighter pilot and holder of the Silver Star after taking a carrier battle group through the mined Strait of Gibraltar, patted his shirt pocket for the third time. Damn, he thought, it’s like a security blanket. He had to quit checking every few minutes to see if he had a cigar.

  From his viewpoint, the amphibious exercise was going well. You would never know it from the anguished comments from his Chief of Staff—Captain Leonard Upmann—Navy surface-warfare officer. But what could you expect from black shoes whose idea of fun was to work longer hours?

  Shoes had divided the warfare specialties of the Navy until the early 1990’s, when it was decreed that officers, regardless of whether they were aviators or surface-warfare officers or submariners, could wear brown shoes. While they had previously complained and griped about aviators being singled out for special uniform considerations such as the brown shoes, when given the opportunity, no self-respecting SWO or submariner would dare be caught wearing them.