Joint Task Force #1: Liberia
Page 16
St. Cyr nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand. But . . . we are the stronger force.”
Upmann shook his head. “Yeah, you got the ships, but there’s more to warfare than having the stronger force.”
Holman reached out and lightly toughed Leo’s arm. Blood vessels along his Chief of Staff’s neck and across his forehead stood out. Holman had seen those marks of anger several times in the two years they had been together. As much as this visit seemed to be heading for the Dumpster, Holman still had a faint hope of salvaging this horrid meeting of two allies. He shook his head slightly at his Chief of Staff. Upmann would have to keep quiet and let him face the situation. A burst of anger would only work against them.
“Captain, we’ll be here when you return.”
“Admiral, this is Lieutenant Jacques Jean. He will make you comfortable until I return. I apologize for the miscommunications, sir. It was never my intent to upset—how you Americans say—the apple cart. No, sir, not in the least.”
The lanky, gray-uniformed officer that St. Cyr pointed out stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, and nodded. “Welcome to the Charles de Gaulle,” Lieutenant Jean said, his accent very heavy. It took Holman a moment to realize what the officer had said.
“With your permission, sir,” St. Cyr said, saluting Admiral Holman before turning and leaving the wardroom.
Damn! He must be nervous. He finally saluted.
Holman looked at the French lieutenant standing in front of him. The Frenchman had a grin that stretched across his face, pulling smile lines down from around deep-set eyes that seemed to sparkle. Here was an officer comfortable with his rank, thought Holman. But he didn’t need the man hovering over them.
“Lieutenant, may we have some coffee?”
A puzzled look crossed the young lieutenant’s brow before a smile spread across his face. Jean snapped to attention and said, “Welcome to the Charles de Gaulle.”
Holman nodded. “Thank you once again. May we have some coffee?”
The man’s eyes shifted back and forth. The grin seemed to fade for a moment before it whipped back across the young face. “Welcome to the Charles de Gaulle.”
“Where the hell did they put the batteries in that guy?” Upmann asked.
Mary Davidson leaned forward and in flawless French asked for coffee. The French lieutenant’s eyebrows arched upward, and he responded with a burst of rapid French.
“You speak French, Mary?” he asked.
“I thought I did until he answered my request for coffee.”
“Shit,” Upmann muttered. He stepped forward, walked around the French officers, and went to the coffee machine installed in the corner of the compartment on top of the shelf.
When he grabbed a cup and stuck it under one of the spigots, the light came on in Lieutenant Jean’s head, and he shouted instructions to another junior officer, who quickly took the cup from Leo.
“Café!” Lieutenant Jean said. “Vous voulez figan de café. Une moment.”
“Somewhere a village is missing an idiot,” Upmann mumbled.
Holman motioned Upmann back to his side as the French officers busied themselves with coffee, arranging the accoutrements on the table. One of them stepped into the back pantry and emerged with pastries, rearranging the end of the wardroom table. It gave Holman an opportunity to chat briefly with Upmann and Davidson. For U.S. warships, the unwritten rule with allies was that Americans visit their ships first—they had the wine and the beer. The Americans brought the pretzels.
The sea was truly an unforgiving mistress, and at sea all mariners were brothers; nowadays sisters too. He weighed the events, anger rising inside him. Not about the slights being shown, which were sufficient to cause him to be angry, but realization that his superiors and Washington too, must know something and were withholding it. Knowing how the military worked, he decided two things could have caused the Deputy, European Command to withhold information. One, he had been ordered not to share it, or two, the deputy had no idea himself and didn’t want to raise concerns where there might not be any. Either way, someone in his chain of command knew something that affected Holman’s ability to do his mission and they weren’t telling him. By God, when he got back to the Boxer, he was going to find out just what in the hell was going on.
Holman glanced at the three French officers surrounding the coffee machine. Typical European conference going on there, he thought, as two of the officers tried to direct the unwilling third who was operating the machine.
“Mary, tell the lieutenant to forget the coffee. By the time they figure out how to operate the thing, we’ll either be talking with Admiral Colbert or on our way back to the Boxer.”
Coffee was something they didn’t need anyway considering the fifty-mile helicopter flight back to the Boxer ahead of them and no head on the aircraft. The older you got, the less flexible the bladder.
The door to the wardroom opened and Captain St. Cyr stood there, holding it open. The three French officers turned and fell into line for a moment.
Then, Lieutenant Jean leaped forward and took the door from St. Cyr. Admiral Colbert entered. He was a short man with a slight paunch, a dark, almost Algerian complexion with similar-toned eyes shadowed by heavy black eyebrows. The top of the man’s head was completely bald and reflected somewhat the fluorescent light of the compartment. Heavy dark hair ringed the bald spot. Sprinkles of gray near the ears and in long sideburns ran down to the bottom of the earlobes.
Admiral Colbert stopped and stared at Holman, who returned the stare with a nod. Holman looked past Colbert to St. Cyr, who looked directly into Holman’s eyes for a moment before breaking eye contact.
For that fraction of a second, Dick saw hostility. Probably lost half his ass having to tell Admiral Colbert to either meet with his American visitors or fly them back to the American force.
Captain St. Cyr pulled out the chair at the head of the wardroom table. Admiral Colbert sat down. He was a stout man. Made Holman think of a football defensive end at first glance. The man the deputy of European Command had warned him about looked nothing like Holman had expected. The French admiral put his hands on the table and pushed away. Holman figured he was about to stand to shake hands, so he stepped forward forcing a smile.
Colbert slid his chair away from the table back sufficiently for him to be able to cross his legs. The man’s eyes never left Holman’s face. They sparkled briefly, almost as if he knew that the American admiral had misinterpreted his movement.
Several chairs down the table length, Holman pulled a chair out and sat down at the table with Colbert. Everyone else remained standing.
“Admiral Holman,” Colbert said. “I had hoped that Captain St. Cyr could answer your questions. I offer my apologies for being unable to spend as much time as you were led to expect, but I am sure you understand from one admiral to another how full our days are.” He crossed his arms.
“No, I don’t. I don’t understand why you invited us to visit if you were too busy to see us. I do understand how the challenges of commanding a battle group formation can be, which is why I have qualified officers under me who are more than capable,” Holman said, forcing himself to remain calm. Who in the hell was this asshole to think he could treat him like this? Moreover, fail to extend even the most common acceptable courtesies to a visiting ally?
Colbert’s lower lip pushed his upper lip upward. His head tilted to the left slightly as he shrugged with his head. “You are right. But of course, you Americans are always right. N’est pas?”
“Admiral,” Holman said firmly. “I would like me and my officers to be returned to my command ship as soon as possible. I think we have started on the wrong foot. You’re very busy and I have many items on my agenda that I need to finish.”
Colbert smiled and leaned forward. “Please accept my most humble apologies, Admiral,” he said, insincerity dripping from every word. “I do have a message for you, and I am sure it parallels what your government has probably already told you.”
Holman kept quiet. Colbert shrugged and continued. “As you know, Admiral, we are very concerned over America extending its war on terrorism into Africa. We have managed to contain and stabilize North Africa. We, Europe, have put the lid on the cauldron your Sixth Fleet stirred up two years ago. Through France’s leadership of the European Union, we are working alongside your government to forge a lasting peace in the Middle East between Israel and Palestine. We cannot permit America adventurism into central Africa.”
Holman’s chin nearly dropped. What the hell . . . His eyes narrowed as they met Colbert’s stare. “I believe the admiral is mistaken if he thinks we are here to conduct antiterrorist operations in Liberia. We’re here to evacuate our citizens and not to become engaged. We will also be evacuating citizens of your country.”
To Holman’s left, St. Cyr cleared his throat, fleetingly drawing Colbert’s attention.
“Admiral, France is considering sending troops from its contingent in Ivory Coast to bring out our citizens. Your offer is noted, but we believe we are able to take care of the few hundred French citizens in Liberia. As for your citizens, we understand there are even less than ours in Liberia.”
“We have over two thousand citizens in Liberia, Admiral,” Holman replied. “So, from wherever you’re getting your numbers, you need to send them back to the calculating table.”
Colbert shook his head. “I think, Admiral Holman, of those two thousand, most are Liberian citizens now.”
“They still hold American citizenship.”
“It is only a sham to give America an excuse to expand your influence into an area that France has served throughout its history!” Colbert shouted.
“Three things, Admiral,” Holman replied, his voice low. “One, you’re wrong. Two, don’t shout at me. I’m not one of your lemon-sucking flunkies. Three, return me to my ship immediately where at least my officers know how to make a proper cup of coffee!”
Holman stood and motioned Upmann and Davidson aside. The French admiral reached forward, grinning, and took a pastry from the table.
CHAPTER 7
AS THE MAN’S HAND CAME DOWN, THE RAISED MACHETE came with it. The left side of the charging rebel’s face had been replaced by a deep well of bubbling red where Jamal’s bullet had blown it off. The motion of the machete as it came toward him seemed to slow as the rebel toppled forward.
Jamal jumped, his eyes wide—a startled whimper escaped—as another figure leaped from the right, slamming into the dying African rebel, knocking the man and the machete into the brush on the other side of the path.
“You all right, boy?” George asked, pushing himself off the dead man and brushing debris from his trousers and shirt as he stood.
Jamal nodded, his throat so tight he couldn’t speak. He started to shake uncontrollably.
George reached over and pulled Jamal to him for a moment before releasing him. He ran his hand over Jamal’s head. “Don’t worry none about it, boy. All men gotta die sometimes. You just helped him reach his goal. They mostly wanna go to heaven and talk with Allah. All you did was help arrange the meeting.”
“You’re hurt, George,” Victoria said.
George looked toward where the rebel had emerged, his eyes narrowing. “We all gonna be hurt more if we don’t move,” he said, “They’ll be coming. It don’t take no rocket scientist to figure out which direction the boy’s shot came from. Now, y’all come on.” He hefted his gun into the cradle of his left arm.
Jamal noticed the man’s right hand wrapped around the base of the M-16, so the finger could slide easily onto the trigger.
“We gotta move and we gotta move fast. We gonna head uphill. There’s an old road up there that must have been used decades ago by the lumber people.”
“George, how you know all this?” Victoria asked.
Jamal pushed himself up, brushing himself off as he stood. The gun felt heavy. The shaking had stopped, but he wanted to get a move on, like George said. He looked back, expecting rebels to burst through the jungle curtain of vegetation at any moment.
“I thought you’re as unfamiliar with this area as we are,” Victoria added.
George looked at her and frowned for a moment before a large smile broke across his face.
Jamal reached forward and touched the big man. “I think we should go,” he said quietly, his voice shaking.
“Boy, you’re right,” George answered, then turning to Victoria, he said, “There are some things best left unsaid. Now, come on and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Victoria grabbed Selma’s hand and followed the huge man into the bush, leaving behind the faint animal trail they had been following. They had only gone a few steps when George stopped. “We have to be quiet from here on,” he warned, his voice barely audible.
Jamal nodded in agreement, glancing behind him. What if they were out there, waiting to ambush them like they did the cars? He pulled his rifle up, rotating his head to both sides in an attempt to hear anyone sneaking up on them.
“Wait here,” George said, “I’ll be right back.” The man pushed past Victoria and Selma, running his hand over Jamal’s head as he passed. “That’s it, boy, you keep an eye out and don’t shoot me when I come back.” Then George disappeared back the way they came.
Several minutes later, the sound of moving brush joined the noise of the rain forest. When the noise stopped, George reemerged through the brush.
“Okay, they may miss where we got off the trail.” He pointed to the hill rising out of the jungle ahead of them. “That hill is more a small mountain. You just can’t see the top for the trees,” he whispered. “We’re going to the top. Up there, the trees thin out and we should find that old road I mentioned. Then, it’s just a case of us following it to Kingsville.”
“I hope so,” Victoria said.
“Me too,” Jamal mumbled, licking his lips. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips again. A slight shiver rippled through his body. Vapor rose from his shirt. Looking at the others, he saw the same faint cloud of water moisture rising as the heat baked away the rain from the others’ clothing. The heat had returned in force, evaporating the rain as quickly as it had suddenly begun ten minutes ago.
An hour later, Jamal reached down and rubbed his legs. This going uphill was rough. He glanced behind him again. About every four or five steps he did that. He had been watching their rear ever since they left the path. Somewhere out there, rebels or terrorists or whatever were following them. The jungle was too quiet for him and his friends to be the only ones in it. What he didn’t understand was why the rebels wanted to kill them. They hadn’t done anything. For whatever reason, behind them death followed, and while he had no idea what was ahead, it couldn’t be worse than what followed.
At first, trekking uphill had seemed easy. It used other muscles in the legs, but as they moved on—not stopping to rest—the muscles in his calves had first tightened, and then begun to hurt. Jamal bit his lower lip slightly. He refused to complain. Selma was doing enough of that for all of them.
A few minutes later, Victoria reached down and picked Selma up. The complaining tapered off after a while.
Jamal put one foot in front of the other. If he kept moving one foot at a time, he could keep up. No hill went up forever. But it sure seemed to him this one did.
“STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!” A VOICE SHOUTED FROM NEARBY.
George and Victoria, with Selma balanced on her side, stopped. They stood perfectly still in the center of the overgrown road. Brown and green grasses bunched around their calves. Jamal waited quietly on the far side of the road from where the warning had originated, near the jungle bramble that marked the
edge of the old road. Keeping his head still, he shifted his eyes back and forth, trying to spot the source of the shout. He gripped the barrel of the gun, slowly easing it up.
“Don’t be foolish, boy. I could shoot you before you got it up.”
“You sound American, so why don’t you come out?” George asked.
“Just wanted to make sure you were Americans.”
Two overgrown ruts showed where long-ago traffic had once dug holes into the earth. Small three-foot-high trees, thick bushes, and briars grew among the tall grasses alongside the old lumber track. The four had been following the easier path for about twenty minutes.
Jamal thought his legs were going to collapse. Why did the man want to make sure they were Americans? Were they going to kill them? Was this how it was going to end? He looked at Selma, seeing the back of her head. His sister leaned out, her legs around Victoria’s waist, hands on the woman’s shoulder, and her head whipping back and forth. A whimpering sound reached his ears. Victoria looked down, ran her left hand through the small girl’s hair, and muttered soft words.
Jamal couldn’t believe this. They had outrun and lost their pursuers. At least, he thought they had. The last noises of pursuit were over two hours ago. Since then, they had kept a steady pace, heading north away from where he had killed the rebel.
Noise of people working their way through the bushes drew everyone’s attention. Two men and a young lad about twelve years old stepped out onto the road. They looked like family to Jamal at first glance. The younger man, about mid-thirties, wearing blue jeans, a ball cap, and a light blue long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, held a shotgun. His white face, covered with a rough growth of beard, was bright red from exposure to the sun. Dark sweat stains ran down the inside of his shirt.
The older man lowered his shotgun. Narrowed dark eyes scrutinized George, Victoria, Selma, and Jamal. Wrinkles earned from years of work in the sun wrapped the man’s face, reminding Jamal of a trash can near his father’s desk filled with wadded-up and discarded paper. The man’s face reminded him of the wadded paper, only the face was black.