Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  The huge man pulled his back half into the bushes and put his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he said, pointing his gun back the way he had entered. A sudden crack of thunder rolled through the jungle. The afternoon torrent of tropical rain followed. Within seconds, they were soaked.

  “GENERAL,” SERGEANT MAJOR GENTLE SAID, REACHING down and shaking him slightly to wake him.

  Daniel Thomaston opened his eyes, gripping the arms of the rocking chair. The sun was a bright orange as it touched the edge of the horizon. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long, sir.”

  He lifted his arm and looked at his watch. “Sergeant Major, you are a terrible liar. It’s five o’clock—seventeen hundred hours for you old retired Army sergeants who have never quite grasped the civilian twelve-hour clocks.”

  Gentle’s grin highlighted the slight scar on the right side of his cheek. Thomaston recalled how his friend had received that wound. Nearly fifteen years ago, when Thomaston led a brigade of the 82nd Airborne into Liberia in what was called the start of the African Wars. A natural outcrop of the War on Terrorism that led the United States from Afghanistan to Iraq, then Somalia, through Yemen, and across North Africa to defeat that madman Alqahiray. Only to discover afterward that the radical Islamic horde dedicated to world anarchy had found a natural breeding place in Africa—a place where nearly an entire generation had been wiped out by AIDS.

  “General?”

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major. Just thinking of our first trip to Liberia.”

  “Seems as if the more things change, the more they remain the same.” Gentle reached up and touched the scar.

  During that Liberian campaign, Thomaston and Gentle had led an ambush against a convoy of terrorists who were using the main highway north of Liberia. An ambush that had turned out to be a trap to encircle and kill American soldiers. They had fought their way out of the ambush against an overwhelming force of fighters who wanted to die. Most think that when a force is encircled, it goes to ground and fights hoping that rescue will arrive in time. That might be true in most instances, but the 82nd was not just any force. He recalled Sergeant Major Gentle displaying that same grin as they wallowed in a depression, bullets passing overhead, and the occasional hand grenade whirling through the rain at them, exploding sometimes only a few feet away.

  The words still rang in his ears. “Ain’t this great, General?” Gentle had said. “No matter which way we attack, we can kill us some terrorists. Now, which way would you prefer us to launch an offensive?”

  Thomaston had led his beleaguered force south, through enemy lines stretched thin by their strategy of encirclement. Much like the Battle of Gettysburg, he recalled thinking, where the South had stretched their smaller force so thin that General Lee was unable to maintain any command and control over his troops.

  Sometime during the next few hours, an irate grenade hurled by a fleeing terrorist, who had decided that that was not the time to give his life for Allah, had exploded. A piece of shrapnel had ripped along Gentle’s cheek. The scar was still there: a reminder of their first visit to a country that would one day offer African-Americans ethnic citizenship.

  Thomaston pushed himself up from the rocker. “Here.” Gentle handed him a plastic bottle of water.

  “What have we got, Sergeant Major?”

  “Two patrols out along the road. One to the west and one to the east. We have a backup force two miles, each way, in the event the forward observers request help. So far, sir, everything’s quiet. As you requested, I dispatched a couple of squads toward the Ivory Coast border to see how the situation is between here and there in the event we have to make a run for it. Told them to contact the embassy once they crossed the border.”

  Thomaston nodded. “What about Nathan Hammonds and his group? Don’t want to leave here until he and his refugees from Monrovia arrive.”

  “One of the reasons I woke you, sir. Beaucoup Charlie got a broke-up radio call from Nathan about thirty minutes ago. He couldn’t make out everything being said, but heard gunfire and what he thought were mortar rounds—could have been rocket-propelled grenades—over the radio.” Gentle shook his head. “We haven’t been able to reestablish contact, General.”

  Thomaston pulled his feet up under him and stood. “How far out are they, Sergeant Major?”

  Gentle shook his head. “All I know, sir, is that they had expected to arrive near the Cestos River about this time. According to Nathan, he was going to decide whether to cross it or not once they arrived. I was thinking that maybe I could take a squad and see if we can connect with them.”

  General Thomaston shook his head. “Why doesn’t that surprise me, Craig? I know you’d do it. I want you to do it, but we can’t separate our forces. They’re going to have to work their way to us.”

  “Sir, if we don’t send someone, we could lose them all.”

  “And if we do, then more than just them will die.”

  “But General—”

  Thomaston held up his hand. “Craig, you and I both know the rules of combat. They’re either alive and managed to escape or they’re dead. Sending someone out will only result in the loss of more lives, and the one person I—we can’t afford to lose is you.”

  “Sir, there’re others who can fill in until I return. Just as capable. I think you know that once I’m there, if I find there’s no chance to rescue them, then I’ll hightail it back here.”

  “I know you well enough that if this old sergeant major gets out there and finds survivors and he has to take on a superior force to rescue them, he’d do it. Even if it meant him dying in the fight.”

  Gentle turned and walked to the edge of the porch. Thomaston took two steps to stand beside him. “I don’t like making this decision, Sergeant Major.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “I know, sir. I know it’s the right decision for the greater good, but leaving someone to the enemy is not an ingrained Army tradition.”

  “We aren’t in the Army anymore, Craig. We don’t have the resources, the logistics, the communications to effect a rescue that would have been second nature when we were on active duty.” He sighed and dropped his hand. “We’ve no choice. It’s not a decision I make likely.”

  “I know, General. But it’s a decision that I don’t enjoy hearing.” He turned and faced Thomaston. “General, different subject. We’ve a couple of families who’ve arrived while you were regaining your strength.”

  “Let’s go check on them and the others.” Thomaston started down the steps, his combat boots echoing off the hard wood. Gentle hurried after the officer, falling into step to the left of the taller man. “When do we expect the group heading toward the Ivory Coast to return?”

  “You were awake when they left. They’ve been gone about eight hours, I’d say. I suspect we won’t see them until tomorrow morning, earliest. They said they’d try to return tonight, but rather than wake you, I took the liberty of telling them to wait and travel during the daylight.”

  Thomaston nodded as they reached the walkway. Steps bothered him. You would think after thirty-six years of Army service, jumping out of perfectly good aircraft and fighting around the globe, his knees would be hardened to physical discomfort by now. The doctor said that was exactly the reason his knees were bad. Said to think of them like shock absorbers. In Thomaston’s case, the warranty had expired.

  “Good job,” Thomaston replied. “What we need to do, Sergeant Major, is get the cars and trucks organized. I think we may have to make a break for the Ivory Coast.”

  “Done, sir.”

  “Then, I would like to outfit a couple of those pickup trucks. Put some weapons on the top of the cabs.”

  “Two have been outfitted with the only M-50 heavy machine guns we have.”

  Without stopping, Thomaston, his eyebrows arched upward, turned and glanced down at Gentle. “And we also need to make sure that everyone knows which vehicle they are assigned to, and also we need to identify a couple of vehicl
es for nothing other than fuel, food, and water.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re already filling a couple of the bigger trucks—the ones we’ve been using to haul vegetables to the Pyne Town market—with the fuel, food, and water. A couple of younger militiamen are distributing lists telling everyone which vehicle they’re to ride in.”

  “Sergeant Major, seems to me I could have continued on with my nap,” General Thomaston said, his head turning toward the sound of bells ringing. “Who’s at the church?”

  “Reverend Hew is having a memorial service for those killed today. I thought you might want to attend.”

  “Church is not somewhere I prefer to see myself,” Thomaston replied.

  “As always, the general has thought of everything ahead of time.”

  “Sergeant Major, if I didn’t know better, I would swear you only hang around to see how far ahead of me you can stay. And with the United States? Have we reestablished contact with the Navy force headed our way?”

  “No, sir. Beaucoup Charlie is still at his radio and we still have the generator churning and burning so he can keep broadcasting. Said he’d send Tawela if he hears anything.”

  “I would like to know what Washington plans. Whatever they are planning, they need to know our situation. Otherwise, we could be like lovers passing in the night.”

  “The mind boggles at the thought, General.” The radio on Gentle’s belt crackled. “Homeplate, Rover One calling. Do you copy?”

  Gentle pulled the radio out, clicked the switch, and replied, “Rover One, this is Homeplate. Go ahead.”

  “Homeplate, Rover One is about twenty kilometers along Route One. We’re taking gunfire and are pulling back.”

  Thomaston asked for the radio. “Rover One, Mother; what is your situation? What is the size of the enemy force?”

  There was a pause on the radio. “Sir, we’ve one dead and two wounded. I counted more than ten vehicles; some of them huge open-back trucks filled with rebel troops.”

  “Are you sure they aren’t more refugees fleeing west and thought you to be rebel fighters?”

  “Sir! They opened fire first, and above the firing were the shouts of ‘Allah Alakbar!’ They’re rebels all right, and they’re coming our way. The good news is we disabled the first two vehicles with small-arms fire. I don’t think they’ll be using them.”

  “Okay, fall back to where the backup elements are waiting.”

  “This is Backup One,” a new voice said on the radio. “We’re already en route forward to help Rover One.”

  “We’re heading toward you, Backup One.”

  “Backup One, this is Thomaston. How far away from your assigned position are you?”

  “Sir, we are about four kilometers west and—”

  “STOP! Wait right there for Rover One. Find a good position along the road—I seem to recall around the 233- kilometer marker the jungle forces the road to narrow.”

  “Yes, sir. We passed that marker a few minutes ago.”

  “Get back to it. Take a defensive position. Rover One, join them. If hostiles appear, let them know you are there. It should slow them down. If you can hold until after dark, then you should be able to slip away and make your way back to Kingsville.”

  Both elements roger’d out. Thomaston handed the radio back to Gentle. “What do you think, Sergeant Major?”

  “I think we should be heading toward Ivory Coast.”

  “I think you should be right.”

  Thomaston marched up the steps of the church, Gentle alongside him. “Guess I’ve got no choice but to go to church,” Thomaston said. “We might as well use this opportunity to let the rest of the town know what our options are.”

  Gentle looked back at the small American town. Several main buildings such as the town market, the general store, and even a small bank lined the street. “Hate to leave it.”

  “I know.”

  “They’ll burn it.”

  “We’ll rebuild it.”

  “They may burn it again.”

  “Then we’ll have to rebuild it again.”

  The two men slapped hands. “Won’t be the first time,” Thomaston said.

  “No, sir, but someday it’ll be the last time.”

  “Let’s just hope these civilians are up to the fight. Are you ready?” Thomaston asked softly.

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Craig Gentle, formerly of the 82nd Airborne, replied. He moved to the left of the former general and took one step back.

  Thomaston nodded. “Let’s do it.” He opened the door to the church and the two entered. Voices stopped as they stepped inside. He saw the hope in their eyes as faces turned toward him. He alone knew the precariousness of their situation. Even Craig Gentle would not appreciate it because Sergeant Major Gentle never accepted anything that smacked of the possibility of defeat. Pessimism was not a word in the sergeant major’s vocabulary. The two of them—the yin and the yang. And never more did he need that optimism than now. The only other thing he needed was a good intelligence picture, but the worst part of civilian life was never knowing something that everyone else already knew. Even CNN would be welcome right now. The benches of the church were packed.

  One thing would either forge their resolve in the coming fight, or cause them to flee with fear into the jungles and rain forest that made up the southern border of this enclave. That was knowing only one option exists to save your life. Such knowledge really limits the bullshit arguments in trying to decide what to do. The report by Rover One was enough. They had two options at this point of time and knowing what they knew—flee to Ivory Coast, or stay, fight, and defeat the rebels. The first option was the best. He didn’t know how many rebels were heading this way, but he knew they would know how many Americans were at Kingsville. His years of combat experience against Islamic radicals had taught him they only attacked in force when they knew they had the numerical advantage. Otherwise, it was suicidal bombers and asymmetric warfare. Most terrorists didn’t want to die. Look at Afghanistan. When the choice was die or change sides, the rush to the winning team left a dust cloud around the opposing bench on the other side.

  Hands reached out and touched his as he walked up the aisle. Sergeant Major Gentle stopped at the door. As Thomaston neared the pulpit in front of the church, more hands touched him and whispers of “God Bless you” accompanied him all the way to the front. By the time he shook hands with Pastor Jonathan Hew, he knew what he needed to say.

  CHAPTER 4

  DICK HOLMAN EASED THE HAVANA CIGAR OUT OF HIS mouth, turned his head toward Captain Upmann, and inadvertently blew the smoke into the wind. The wind immediately wrapped the smoke around his face. Damn, that burns. He shut his eyes for a second until the wind blew it away, before taking his handkerchief and wiping the moisture away.

  He ignored the chuckles from Captain Leo Upmann. The man just didn’t appreciate a good cigar, but what could you expect from a surface-warfare officer—a person who lived to be at sea, sailing in harm’s way, looking for a battle against another Navy on the high seas. Something that, as far as Holman was concerned, would never happen in the twenty-first century. After all, America ruled the seas, but it still had those Navy officers who would love nothing better than to stand on the bow with their swords drawn, waiting to hop aboard an enemy warship and engage them mano-a-mano. Now, us aviators we’ve got it right. Mount those swords in a framed display, hang ’em over a fireplace, and invite the girls back. It was a whole lot less dangerous and a hell of a lot more fun. A person could get hurt playing with swords.

  Off the starboard side of the USS Boxer, about five nautical miles—ten thousand yards—sailed the USS Belleau Wood, LHA-3. Dick squinted as he peered through the open bridge at the USS Nassau, LHA-4, sailing off the port side. He hoped those helicopters jumping between the ships took a few photographs of this battle group. It had to be impressive. When was the last time the Navy had a three-amphibious-carrier battle group or a three-amphibious-carrier amphibious task force? Talk about
versatility! Talk about tongue twisters!

  The last time he’d asked the navigator for formation details, she’d held the Nassau fourteen thousand yards—that was seven miles—off port side. The two Tarawa-class amphibious helicopter assault ships were old, but within their 820-foot- long hulls, Dick had the resources of 3,500 Marines if he needed them. Kind of like having a hornet’s nest waiting for someone to hit it.

  The USS Boxer, LHD-4, on the other hand, was a newer-class amphibious warship at 888 feet, with 1,200 Marines embarked. Shit! When whatever aircraft carrier showed up, I could own Liberia in a week. Dick grinned and took another puff on his hand-rolled Havana. Best thing we ever did was lifting the Cuban embargo when old Fidel had his stroke. If that bearded terrorist had been able to speak, he would have had another one when the new Cuban government opened the country to democratic reforms and pegged the peso to the dollar. As long as they didn’t change how they make cigars, he could give a damn about their government. Shit! Ain’t life grand!

  On the flight deck of the USS Belleau Wood, a Harrier taxied toward the bow of the ship. A second Harrier, its cockpit down and locked, waited behind the first. He glanced at the Ops Schedule—daylight landing qualifications. That would be the Marine “newbies” getting their sea legs or some of the veterans requalifying. Landing on a bouncing deck that never stopped moving horizontally and vertically was hard enough. When you added seas that caused these huge ships to roll, it really made the landings exciting—butt-cheek-gripping. He recalled some of his own aircraft-carrier qualification flights, and aircraft carriers were a lot larger than the amphibious ships he commanded. He recalled a couple of landings when he was a junior officer where, if he’d had teeth in his butt, he’d have chewed a hole through the seat.

  He tossed the clipboard back on the shelf beneath the ledge and glanced at his watch. Just about time for dinner.

  “Navigator!” Dick shouted into the bridge.

  “Yes, sir, Admiral,” the young female lieutenant replied.