Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  Gunfire rode over the noise of the rain. Shouts in one of the guttural African dialects—Jamal had yet to figure out how to tell one dialect from another when they all sounded so much alike.

  Victoria dropped to her knees, pulling Selma to the ground with her. Jamal squatted on his haunches, his rifle pointed back the way they had come. They had stopped in a small clearing about six feet long and a couple feet wide. Bushes about six feet high surrounded them and from where they had entered the clearing, the leaves had closed, hiding the path.

  Shouts, this time in English, but too garbled by the rainfall for him to understand. He could tell it wasn’t George shouting. Jamal had no idea if that was good or bad. If he heard George, then it meant the man was alive. If he didn’t, did it mean George was dead, hiding, or sneaking up on those bastards?

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped, and like a flash, the jungle reappeared, colors exploding around them. If he was lost before, the enormity of their situation became even more apparent with the stopping of the rain. The late afternoon downpour had saved their lives. Jamal shook, realizing for a moment that if the rain had started later, those men would have found them as easily as George did. They could have stuck their guns into the bush and killed them without ever seeing who they were shooting.

  The sound of running footsteps caused him to grip the rifle tighter. His finger was on the trigger. His shaking was causing the rifle to shake. Tears trickled along his cheeks, making him angry that he was so scared. Someone was crashing through the bushes toward them. Running, tripping, jumping up, and running again. Probably George, he hoped, hurrying to catch up with them, but he aimed his rifle where he thought George would appear, and tightened his finger on the trigger, telling himself not to shoot—not to shoot. He mumbled once, “Don’t shoot.”

  Suddenly, an African burst through the curtain of vegetation, seeing Jamal at the same time as he saw him. The man raised his automatic weapon. Jamal pulled the trigger, never shutting his eyes. Behind him, Victoria shouted, drawing the attention of their attacker a fraction of a second before the two fired. Selma’s screams joined the sound of the two weapons. As the rifle fired, Jamal heard the sounds of another person running through the jungle toward them. The warm feel of urine ran down his wet pants leg.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ENGINE NOISE OF THE FRENCH DAUPHIN HELICOPTER forced Dick Holman, his Chief of Staff—Captain Leo Upmann, and the Amphibious Group Two intelligence officer, Mary Davidson, to put their heads close together, nearly touching, when they talked. Holman had one side of the earmuffs lifted so he could hear Upmann’s shouted words. The gray earmuffs reduced the decibel assault from the engines, but obscured conversation unless you read sign or lips. Holman raised his hand between him and his Chief of Staff. He slipped the earmuff back down, shut his eyes, and leaned his head against the heavy tarp that covered the inside of the French helicopter. Fifty miles wasn’t that far, but over the ocean it seemed forever. He failed to understand the French insistence on keeping a minimum separation of—what did they say? Eighty kilometers? Fifty miles wasn’t quite eighty kilometers, but the French were still new at aircraft carrier operations, and he attributed this distance between the battle groups to their fear of colliding with his ships. Must be true for their aircraft carriers as it was for his; aircraft carriers maneuver, all others avoid.

  Upmann was still bitching and moaning over orders received two days ago detaching the USS Nassau, USS Belleau Wood, the auxiliary ship USS Concord, and their most modern warship the DD-21-class USS Stribling. Watching them turn back and disappear over the horizon had effectively reduced mission options for Holman’s amphibious task force. He still had the Marines on board his command ship, the amphibious carrier USS Boxer. For escorts, European Command left him the aging destroyer USS Spruance, the Aegis-class cruiser USS Hue City, and the even more ancient civilian-manned oiler USNS Mispellion. The Mispellion would probably fall apart if anyone ever sanded the rust off her.

  Of course, Upmann wasn’t the only one upset over the unexpected reduction in force. Dick had gotten his ass in a sling over it. Twelve hours ago, he went over the head of the Air Force general commanding European Command. He had called the Chief of Naval Operations, who was also a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He had appealed to Admiral Gianti, and asked for his intervention. He should know after all these years that no good deed goes unpunished. But he had to try. If he didn’t, and something happened, he would fail in his job by not fighting for more ships, Marines, and firepower.

  Dick shook his head slightly. His bosses could have left him with the more modern warships. By God, give him enough forces so he could respond to any mission creep Washington threw at him. What if he was forced to go into Liberia and conduct a combat evacuation? Granted, he still had 1200 Marines, and that was probably enough not only to liberate but conquer Liberia. The challenge wasn’t evacuating the Americans in this gone-to-hell country, but in finding all of them. The bulk of the American Embassy personnel had fled to Sierra Leone. He would have appreciated someone in authority telling him why they reduced the size of his force. Instead, the explanation they threw at him was that they only wanted to send what was needed for the mission.

  The handset he used to talk with the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Gianti, was still warm when General Derek Scott, Deputy Commander, European Command, discovered the telephone call. It seemed hotter after he hung up. The Army deputy spoke as plainly as Holman recalled, but of course the Army had little use for small talk. The most important part of the conversation hid the reason for the small U.S. force heading toward Liberia.

  He wondered if General Scott even knew he had said it. It was right after the Army general finished chewing him out about “phoning home” instead of going through the proper chain of command, which was going to the European Command located in Germany. The Army deputy believed he had to remind Holman one more time. “You are now a Joint Task Force—Joint Task Force Liberia—under the command of General Sidney Shane. European Command; not Northern Command nor the Pentagon. Your orders are to evacuate Americans and any other friendly citizens from the civil war in Liberia, and while doing this mission, you are to avoid entanglement.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, General,” Dick had replied to the three-star deputy. “But until two days ago I had a force that could have taken Africa if I had been ordered. Today—”

  “Today, Admiral, you have a force that is tailored to do the mission at hand, which is bring out our citizens, and at the same time not threaten American relations with our European allies.”

  The last comment caused Dick to raise his eyebrows. “Sir, I don’t understand how rescuing our citizens and our allies’ citizens threaten America’s relationship with our European allies.”

  After several seconds of silence, General Scott said, “France is especially concerned about our involvement in Africa. That being said, Admiral Holman, you’re not expected to understand the politics about this mission. Yours is but to do—”

  “—and die. I know the quote, General, but if I’m to do this mission effectively, then I need to know everything that affects it. I don’t understand how rescuing American citizens affects anyone other than us. General, does the fact that a French Navy force is approaching us from the north have anything to do with your comments? We expect to rendezvous with them by noon tomorrow, and my intelligence officer tells me they have two carriers with them. You know I have none?”

  There had been a pause on the other end; a pause so long that finally Dick had asked, “Are you still there, General.”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. They’ve been in contact with you?”

  “Of course. They’re our ally, aren’t they?”

  “Well, yes. Most certainly. I was just surprised to hear they were coordinating with you. You know the Administration needs the French influence in the Middle East to ensure our Israeli-Palestine peace initiative works?”

  “That’s like inviting yo
ur mother-in-law to settle an argument between you and your wife.”

  “Are you coordinating operations with the French?”

  “I didn’t say we were coordinating, General. When I found out they were heading our way, I contacted them. I assumed they were as concerned as we are about events in Liberia. And knowing the number of French citizens and military they have in the nearby Ivory Coast, I knew that they would be just as concerned about the civil war filtering over into it as we are. Admiral Colbert has invited me to visit the French aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle. So, I intend to, and once we’ve worked out operation areas, maybe we’ll establish some sort of Coalition Wide Area Network—CWAN—so we can share data in a secure mode.”

  After a few seconds ’pause, Deputy Commander, European Command had continued in an ominous tone. “Admiral, be careful. We don’t know why the French are sending such a large battle force down that way. But we are sure that they—the French government—are adamantly opposed to us ‘invading’—their word not mine—Liberia. They’ve been major political opponents over us going into Liberia, even raising the issue in Brussels at both NATO headquarters as well as the European Union Court.”

  Dick had shook his head. “General, I’ve been invited to visit with Admiral Colbert. My mission is not to invade Liberia; just evacuate our citizens. I am sure Admiral Colbert understands that,” Holman said, and then after a short pause when the general didn’t jump in with an answer, he added, “Shit, General. Even a fresh lieutenant with a little salt water behind his ears can tell that with only three warships and one auxiliary vessel, we aren’t an invasion force. We are barely a rescue force. And if anything goes wrong, we’re going to be in deep kempshi.” Kempshi was a spicy Korean dish made from cabbage and similar to sauerkraut, with the exception that it was fermented until nearly rancid.

  “Exactly, Dick, and that is one of the reasons the Joint Chiefs have reduced the size of your force. You don’t need them for an evacuation. Different subject: Henri Colbert. I’ve met him, Dick,” the Deputy of European Command said. “He’s not a friend of the United States.”

  Dick felt a push against his shoulder, bringing his thoughts back to where they were—on a French helicopter heading toward the French aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle.

  “Admiral,” Captain Mary Davidson said.

  He mouthed the word “yes” over the noise.

  She leaned forward, pulled the earpiece of the sound muff away from his right ear, and shouted, “Have you looked out the window?”

  He shook his head and turned to share the small double-paned window with her. Below sailed the two aircraft carriers of the French Navy—the FN Charles de Gaulle and the FN Richelieu, surrounded by four cruisers, several destroyers, and a couple of smaller ships—probably coastal frigates. Damn! Made his own small force of four ships look like a coastal navy. Holman pressed his face closer to the concave-shaped window, trying to spot the oiler or supply ships that a battle group this size would need. After a few seconds, he pulled back. Colbert must have them behind the battle group, or they are on the other side of the helicopter. Logistics ships sailing far to the rear was a protective tactic for a battle group expecting to fight.

  “Impressive!” he said as he pulled back.

  “Too impressive,” Mary replied.

  He raised his eyebrows questioningly. The thing about intelligence officers was their propensity for seeing conspiracies in everything and everywhere. Sometimes, they were right. Most times, they just made their bosses paranoid.

  “No amphibious ships, sir. If they’re here to evacuate their citizens or to go in and restore order, they would have amphibious units with them. Amphibious units loaded with French Marines, Army, or Foreign Legion elements.”

  He turned back to the window. She was right. This Naval force was designed to fight a war at sea, though the airpower the two French carriers brought could project power ashore. But you didn’t win land battles through air and naval power. You won them by putting armies and Marines ashore. Same with evacuations. You needed those grunts with their handheld weapons. He glanced at Upmann, who had listened to the exchange.

  “Leo, your thoughts?” he shouted.

  Upmann shook his head. “They don’t need to bring amphibious units when they have more than enough ground forces in Ivory Coast. All they have to do is motor across the border, drive up the coast or the main highway that runs across the center of Liberia, and voila, twenty-four hours later Liberia becomes a member of the francophone fan club.”

  Holman turned back to Captain Davidson. “Mary, you hear that?”

  She nodded. “Not all of it, but enough to get the gist.”

  “What do you think?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  Upmann’s analysis satisfied him. He looked back through the window as the helicopter turned, watching the ships pass slowly across his field of vision. He pulled back when the helicopter steadied up on its approach course. Holman leaned back and shut his eyes. Not one oiler or supply ship or ammunition ship had passed beneath them during the turn. Where were they? Why weren’t they with the battle group? He twitched in his seat. Something made him uncomfortable about this French show of strength. Why would the French send so much power south in a crisis that was more of an American interest than theirs? Were they this concerned about their own people in the Ivory Coast?

  IN WASHINGTON, WHILE HOLMAN AND HIS TWO DEPUTIES made their approach to the French aircraft carrier Charles De Gaulle, the Secretary of Defense, Addison Maltby, had just hung up with the President’s National Security Advisor, Mattingly Elkhammer. Addison turned his chair around so he could look out across the north parking lot of the Pentagon toward Boundary Channel. After a few seconds, he nodded, resting his head on clasped hands. Addison hoped Mattingly passed on to the President his recommendation to tell Admiral Holman what his rules of engagement were. Without rules of engagement, the decision to release weapons fell to the senior officer in command. While this Admiral Holman had a good reputation for keeping a cool head under fire, Addison had his doubts about this hidden strategy of keeping the man in the dark. He turned slightly so he could pick up the TOP SECRET folder on his desk. Since 9/11, the CIA had been a “turning and burning” organization, developing biographies and backgrounds on allies and enemies alike. He opened it and stared at the photograph of Admiral Henri Colbert. This French Navy officer had been specifically chosen to lead this French Naval force. Why? Everything in this profile showed a man who was hotheaded; never asked for nor accepted higher-authority guidance; and most of all, viewed America more as a threat to French hegemony than Islamic extremists.

  That liberal juggernaut at State had managed to convince the President that turning back the bulk of the U.S. Naval force would show our European allies that the mission of Joint Task Force Liberia was strictly defensive. A noncombatant evacuation mission, not designed to widen the global war on terrorism. He shut the folder. True—Washington needed the French military and political influence to firm up a breakthrough to a peaceful resolution to the decades-old Israeli-Palestinian issue. If peace broke out in the volatile Middle East area, then it would isolate the radical Islamic movements in most of the Arab countries. It would also move America’s thirteenth year of the global war on terrorism closer to victory—if victory could ever be achieved. The buzzer broke through his reverie. Addison tossed the folder back on his desk, where sometime after he departed late tonight a security officer would “ magically appear” and retrieve it. The door opened. His executive aide stuck her head inside and announced the first of numerous meetings scheduled for today. Addison looked at his watch—seven A.M. Everything ran on time in the Pentagon and time was determined by him.

  THE HELICOPTER BANKED RIGHT AND STARTED A STEEP DESCENT toward the flight deck of the FN Charles de Gaulle. Even through his anxiety at trying to fill in the blanks that European Command and the disposition of the French battle group had opened, Holman was looking forward to the visit. He ha
d never been aboard either of the French carriers, and while they were slightly smaller than any of the eight American aircraft carriers, they still wielded a lot of airpower. Enough to eclipse every nation but America. They carried two long-range surveillance EC-2 Hawkeye aircraft purchased from America. Both French carriers had two catapults. An American aircraft carrier had four. Even with two, they could launch two Super Etendard fighter aircraft every thirty seconds. They carried forty fighters to an American aircraft carrier’s eighty. Without that American aircraft carrier, the French controlled the seas around this part of Africa. Damn good thing they’re our allies.

  A couple of minutes later, the wheels touched down on the deck of the French nuclear-powered carrier. The turbine noise from the helicopter engines wound down as power to the rotors decreased. They were on board the command ship of the French battle group. Both Davidson and Upmann were aware of his conversation with the Deputy, European Command, and like him, had more questions than answers as to why the amphibious task force had been downsized. The rationale that they had been shaped for the mission just didn’t hold water.

  A tall French Navy officer stood regally a few feet away from the edge of the slowing rotors as Holman, Upmann, and Davidson stepped down from the helicopter. Holman moved forward, hunched over, to avoid the rotors. No one walked upright beneath revolving helicopter rotors—not unless being tall was a major concern. The French officer rendered a sharp salute as he approached. Holman returned it, and immediately grasped the Navy officer’s hand. The shoulder epaulets on the white uniform identified the Frenchman as a captain. Three other officers standing slightly behind the French captain dropped their salutes.