Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  Five minutes passed, and the machine gun grew heavier with each uphill step. Amazing how he came to be here, he thought. It was destiny, he told himself as he moved forward. No one else was as prepared as he was. He had a university degree; how many of the others had one? He had graduated from the University of Lagos. It would be others such as him who would free Africa from the influence and enslavement of the Arabs, the Chinese, and the white man. For that, he must never allow rumors and tales to survive that would affect his stature, for that would affect the larger plan of a free Africa. A free Africa under his leadership. He would have to take another wife. Even these imbeciles failed to understand why he would never sully his manhood with strange women. Never follow another man with a woman. AIDS had devastated Africa. So much so, an entire generation was missing. Few understood the impact of a missing generation, and even fewer appreciated the opportunity it offered for a leader such as him. Most Africans believed themselves immune to AIDS, but Mumar knew better.

  A man of his stature would need a younger, more energetic wife to work alongside the young one he already had. A virgin. Must be a virgin. Age was of little consequence. He needed one who would worship him and do what he said. One who would do whatever act he commanded. When he became powerful, there would be many chiefs who would offer their daughters to be close to him. A wealth of sons would ensure the survival of his line.

  Ougalie glanced back at Nakolimia, who jerked his head in the direction of Mumar. Lugging the mortar and the shells, they fought their way through the undergrowth of the Liberian rain forest and jungle with the weapons Abu Alhaul had said would finish off the armory.

  Mumar leaned forward as he walked, his breath more rapid as the incline increased. His mind lost in thoughts of future greatness, he stumbled across a vine and felt the weight of the weapon on his shoulder. Recovering quickly, he reminded the two men that once they started firing the mortar, they must avoid hitting the vehicles inside the armory. The SUVs and pickup trucks would be a welcome boon to their army. Combine the victory at the armory with a few smaller victories, and all across Africa fellow patriots would rise up to take their country back. Those same Africans would be the foundation upon which Mumar envisioned his own army with him as its general. It was a great time to be alive and to be African.

  The hot African breeze drifting down across the top of the hill did little to cool the trio. But it felt good against his sweat-soaked T-shirt—even where it itched under the arms. Before Mumar’s fantasies swirled back to capture reality, voices riding on the wind broke his attention. He held up his hand.

  “Ssssh,” he said, easing the heavy weapon to the ground. He rotated his right arm, stretching the muscle in his shoulder.

  He tilted his head back and forth trying to make out the voices. He motioned Ougalie and Nakolimia to put the mortar and shells down. When they had, he waved them forward and whispered instructions. A few seconds later, they spread out, the two moving forward with their rifles at port arms, and Mumar behind them with his pistol drawn. They pushed the brush away quietly and worked their way silently toward the top of the hill.

  The voices became clearer as they neared. Mumar identified several male voices and a couple of women. They were speaking English—American English.

  “THE FIGHTING’S STOPPED,” JOEL GRAYSON SAID AS HE walked out of the forest, zipping up his pants.

  The others, sitting around the tablecloth on the ground, turned toward him.

  “Did you see General Thomaston?” Victoria asked, brushing the bread crumbs from her blouse.

  Joel shrugged. “I don’t know what he looks like and from as far away as we are on this hill, those fighting below look slightly larger than stick figures. All I know is that those inside the arsenal still have control. They’ve moved the women and children from the building to where the trucks and cars are parked. They arranged a bunch of vehicles in a square. I think those vehicles will be their last stand.”

  Victoria’s eyes darted around the group. “We’ve got to do something,” she pleaded.

  Parker Swafford spoke from the far side of the tractor. “I heard a couple of loud explosions.”

  Joel nodded. “Yeah, the rebels got some sort of grenade thrower or something.”

  “Probably a mortar,” Victoria said.

  “A mortar?”

  “Yeah, it’s like a portable bomb launcher that you drop a shell into it and it fires it up and over obstacles.”

  “I know what a mortar is,” Joel said testily, and then sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short.”

  Victoria nodded. “I understand, but there must be something we can do. We can’t just leave those people to these terrorists. They will kill them. Those are other Americans down there.”

  Joel shook his head. “What would you suggest? There’s only a few of us and a lot of terrorists. Right now, they don’t know we are here, and I would prefer to keep it that way. What I think we are going to do is backtrack. If we continue forward, we are going to come within sight of the armory. Then, both them and the attackers will believe we are with the other side, and most likely start shooting us. Even if those in the armory recognize us as Americans, ain’t a damn thing they can do when those rebel fools turn on us.”

  “You’re right, Joel,” Parker said as he walked around the back of the trailer. He held his shotgun across his chest. “I just don’t like leaving them.” He held his hand up to stop Joel from replying. “Ain’t like I don’t understand what you’re saying, but that don’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Joel Grayson, make yourself a peanut-butter sandwich,” Artimecy said, pointing to the open jar and moldy loaf of bread on the open tablecloth. “While we pack this stuff up. Ain’t much we can do even though you want to, Parker.” She looked at Victoria. “I’m sorry, child, but General Thomaston wouldn’t want you or us doing anything foolish that won’t change the outcome.”

  Victoria opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. She pinched off bread mold from a few places and took another bite of the sandwich.

  “Seems pretty quiet now, but it won’t stay that way long,” Joel added.

  “We’ve got to find help for them,” Victoria pleaded, her voice rising around words muted by peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth. She leaned forward, coughing to clear her throat.

  “How we going to do that? We don’t have a radio and the nearest Americans are in the Ivory Coast—where we need to be headed,” Joel said, poking himself on the chest a couple of times.

  Victoria swallowed hard, washing the concoction down with a mouthful of water. “I think we should stay here. Even if we can’t do anything now, we may be able to later. Maybe after dark, we can. . . .”

  She fell silent. No one answered.

  Joel shook his head and spoke up. “I saw another path a mile back on the other side of the hill. We could backtrack and work our way down to it. That will put the hill and the rain forest between the fighting and us. With luck, it will take us toward the border.”

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  “I intend to stay here,” Victoria said.

  “We don’t know who or what is down there,” Jose said.

  Victoria looked up as Jose spoke.

  George nodded in agreement.

  “Where are the boys?” Joel asked.

  A sharp crack of a gun broke their conversation.

  “What was that?” Mimy asked.

  “Gunshot,” Joel Grayson said, tossing the half-eaten sandwich onto the tablecloth. He grabbed the shotgun from where it leaned against the back wheel of the tractor.

  “Where’s Cannon?” Mimy asked.

  “He’s up ahead along the road with Jamal,” Victoria said.

  Parker walked toward the front of the trailer. “It sounded as if it came from that direction,” he drawled, using the end of the shotgun to point down the hill.

  “Joel, you’ve got to find Cannon and Jamal,” Mimy pleaded.

  “It was only
one shot,” Jose said. “Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  Parker looked at the young man. “Boy, in the last few days, everything means something even if it’s only taking a leak.” He turned his head away and spit a long string of tobacco juice. “Ain’t been much that ain’t meant something.”

  “Maybe we should back up the tractor and trailer?” Artimecy offered.

  “We can’t,” Joel answered peevishly. “Whoever fired that shot will hear the engine and know we’re here.”

  “Well, we got to do something,” Mimy said, her voice louder than the others.

  “Not so loud,” Joel said, motioning downward with his left hand.

  They argued softly among themselves. After nearly twenty minutes and with no other gunfire heard, they agreed to backtrack when the boys returned. The tablecloth, food, and eating utensils had been wiped and put away. Joel and Parker were heading forward to go search for the two boys when a shout from the left caught them.

  “Drop those guns!” Mumar shouted.

  The three Africans emerged from the bushes, their guns pointing at the group.

  “Don’t even think it, old man,” said Mumar, motioning his pistol at Parker. “I don’t mind shooting you.”

  Mumar’s eyes moved from one to the other. “Back up, all of you!” he shouted, motioning the group toward the rear of the trailer with his pistol. He couldn’t leave them here. They would interfere with his bombardment of the armory. His lips tightened. Deciding what to do with this group was easy, and he had no doubt the two men with him would do what he ordered. Killing them was easy, but he also knew Abu Alhaul wanted live Americans to videotape them having their throats cut. Videotapes that would be sent to the news services with the expectation they would be played to help the spread of terror.

  “Nakolimia and Ougalie, take their weapons and tie them up. We will come back for them. We don’t want them running for help.”

  Parker guffawed. “You’re really stupid, aren’t you? Don’t you think if there had been any help around, they would have already showed up?”

  Artimecy put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t, Parker.”

  Parker put his arm around her and drew her close. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be all right. The man is stupid. I know what they intend to do.”

  “We have so few white men in Liberia,” Mumar said, pointing his pistol at Joel. “We will have even fewer soon.”

  Mumar waved Ougalie forward “Get their guns. You,” he said to Nakolimia, “see what’s on the trailer.”

  “There’s a wounded black man here,” Nakolimia said as he approached the trailer.

  Mumar moved sideways, keeping his pistol trained on the group. His eyes returned to Parker every few seconds even as he worked his way to the end of the trailer. The old man was the unpredictable one. Mumar reached forward and touched the unconscious soldier’s chest.

  “What happened?”

  “Found him alongside the road early this morning,” Parker said.

  Mumar nodded. “Still alive, eh? I figured he’d be dead and some animal would have dragged him off into the jungle for a quick meal by now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria saw Joel take a tiny half step closer to the man who was taking their guns.

  Mumar grinned. “Guess Mother Africa didn’t have feeding the animals in store for you, boy,” he said to the unconscious American. He looked at the others. “I shot him this morning when they refused to stop at our roadblock,” he lied, grinning at the shock on their faces. He extended the pistol forward, aiming it at Parker. If I shoot this old man, the others will stay in line.

  The single shot hit Ougalie in the back, sending him flying into Victoria. A spray of blood shot out of the man’s mouth, flooding across her thin blouse as his body hit her. Reflexively, she reached out and shoved him aside. The guns fell in a heap onto the ground.

  Mumar jumped to the side as another shot rang out. The bullet caught Nakolimia in the head, spinning him around. Mumar scrambled behind the trailer, leaned up, and fired blindly toward the group.

  Benitez leapt toward Victoria, hitting her in the small of the back, knocking her against the trailer, her head striking a piece of the frame. The bullet hit Benitez in the right side of his head, killing him instantly.

  “Take cover!” Joel shouted, pushing Mimy to the ground. He jerked up his shotgun, squatting alongside the large tractor wheel.

  Two more shots came from the bushes, sending bits of soil into the air where they hit.

  Mumar peeked around the edge of the trailer. Everyone had disappeared. Probably at the front of the tractor. Nakolimia was crawling into the brush on the other side of the road. Mumar pulled his head back, but not before he saw a slight movement by Ougalie. The spreading blood beneath the coward meant he was dying. Even if he wasn’t, Mumar couldn’t do anything to save him. He pulled back, glanced around the other side of the trailer. Saw no one and dived into the bushes, only to discover a steep drop. Somewhere in the tumble through the rough bushes and briars, he lost his pistol. His AK-47 was ripped off his shoulder. A sharp pain struck the left side of his head, and the last thing Mumar remembered before he blacked out was a cascade of green as he rolled down the steep grade through the African bush.

  Cannon and Jamal emerged from the side of the road.

  “You okay, Daddy?”

  “You two do this?” Joel asked, pointing to the two dead rebels.

  “Yes, sir,” Jamal said. “We killed them. They needed it.”

  Artimecy pulled Victoria’s head into her lap, lightly slapping her cheek and calling her name. Victoria’s eyes opened for a second and then shut again. Several seconds passed before she opened them again. Blood flowed down her left arm.

  Parker and Mimy rolled the dead Benitez off her.

  “You all right, honey?” Artimecy asked.

  Victoria’s mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged. “She’s bumped her head on the trailer wheel,” Artimecy said.

  Joel reached forward and touched the side of her head. “It ain’t too bad.”

  “I’m all right,” Victoria mumbled, allowing herself to be helped up by Artimecy.

  Parker and Joel grabbed Ougalie’s legs and pulled him off the road. Ougalie’s hands waved feebly in the air. A bubbling moan emerged from the dying African as Ougalie continued to drown slowly from blood filling his lungs.

  Parker stood over the wounded African. He spit to the side of the man. “Boy, looks as if you gonna die. Give God our compliments and tell him you be sent by us,” he said before turning around and walking back to the group. “One’s dead. The other’s dying.”

  A low moan came from the trailer.

  It was Selma. She was rocking back and forth on her haunches, moaning as she stared into the sky.

  “He saved your life,” Jose said to Victoria, pointing to Benitez. “That man shot at you and he jumped between you and the bullet.”

  Victoria looked down at the body. “Why would he do that?” she asked.

  Jose shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe he was trying to dodge the bullets and jumped in front of them.”

  Jose laid the pistol on the back of the trailer, reached down, grabbed Benitez under the arms, and pulled him to the side of the road.

  “I think he’s dead now,” Parker said, jerking his thumb toward the dying African. “If he ain’t, he gonna be.”

  “Think we ought to take him with us?”

  “I think we ought to leave him, Joel. We ain’t no ambulance service and he ain’t no friend.”

  Mimy hugged Cannon, running her hand through the young man’s hair and holding him tight.

  Joel walked over and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good job, son.”

  “It was Jamal who did it. We saw four men lugging weapons up the hill. I wanted to come back and warn you, but Jamal said we couldn’t get here before them. They were ahead of us, so we watched. They had an argument, and the one who escaped killed this big man. Then we
followed them. They heard your voices because we could hear them too. When they started sneaking up on you, we just followed, and when it looked as if he was going to shoot Mr. Parker, Jamal shot him. I shot at the other man and Jamal got the one with the guns.”

  Fifteen minutes later Joel, Parker, Jose, and the two boys had recovered the mortar, the shells, and the M-50 machine gun. Ten minutes later, the weapons that weighed so much and had been carried so far were on top of the trailer beside the unconscious militiaman.

  The men took deep drinks of water and wiped sweat from their faces. Tired and unable to argue, they listened as Victoria proposed a plan to help the armory, but Joel and Parker’s thoughts were on their family. They sympathized, and although both Jamal and Cannon thought the idea glamorous and exciting, the two older men shook their heads. Jose remained silent.

  Victoria’s voice rose. She angrily called them cowards, only to apologize. Finally, she insisted they leave her behind with the mortar and machine gun. The men looked at each other. Victoria crossed her fingers and waited. She draped her hand across Jamal’s shoulder. He stood straighter, holding his rifle by the barrel with the stock braced against his hip.

  He had no intention of leaving and he had no idea what to do with Selma. Jamal had promised his mother to take care of her. Down there was General Thomaston. Down there was the safety his uncle Nathan had promised. So, down there was where they had to go. Maybe—just maybe—his mom and dad were there too.

  CHAPTER 13

  DICK HOLMAN LEANED AGAINST THE GRAY STANCHION that encircled the port bridge wing. This was where real Navy leaders should fight battles, he thought. I would have made an outstanding Navy warrior in the early twentieth century—even during Vietnam. Today’s Navy warriors fought their battles entombed inside darken spaces artificially lighted to protect their vision and the fighting scenarios unfolding on giant computer screens. Shit! His electrical engineering degree from the Academy was ancient compared to the information technology that drove warfare today.