Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  “What are you going to do?” Alan asked.

  “We need to recycle the avionics,” Nash offered.

  “Means that you are going to have to shut down while that intelligence specialist, Senior Chief Oxford, brings the system back on-line. Kind of like restarting your computer when the blue screen of death appears.”

  “That may take some time.”

  Nash mentally shrugged. “I don’t see much of a choice, Alan.”

  “Deathhead Formation, Boxer; sorry, sirs and ma’am,” Petty Officer Watts interrupted. “I have control of Deathhead Formation. Deathhead Leader, Deathhead Two, and Deathhead Four, prepare for vector to the landing force.”

  “What about me?” Alan asked.

  “Alan, we’re going to need you right where your UFAV is now, once you regain control. Climb to twenty-five thousand and act as data relay. Alan, work directly with Senior Chief Oxford and get control back. You may have to vacate the mock-up, get on the mother-board, reactivate the avionics, and the data-link systems. The senior chief doesn’t have any experience in doing this. You’re going to have to do it. Check each one as you do it, and run diagnostics on the data-link systems before you reactivate them.”

  “Roger, will do.”

  “Petty Officer Watts, this is Deathhead Leader. We await your command.”

  “Roger, Deathhead Formation; come to course zero-four-zero, max speed. Maintain altitude two-zero-zero.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE INCOMING MORTAR ROUND EXPLODED ON THE GRASSY area of the compound killing several of the enemy. A second round, followed by a third, screamed through the air. Thomaston slowly stood as he searched the sky, trying to follow the whistling sound of the mortar. Each one was exploding into the attacking charge. If Abu Alhaul terrorists were firing that mortar, they were piss-poor in their aim, thank God.

  The Africans were the first to break and run. The Arab leaders in their midst hit out at them with the butts of their guns, trying to force them to turn around and continue toward Thomaston and the trapped townsfolk. Thomaston watched as an Arab shot a fleeing African before turning his gun back toward the townsfolk just as a group of Africans knocked him down and trampled him as they fled. The whistling sound of another mortar pierced the noise of the gunfire, and drowned out for a moment the cries of the attackers as they ran in disorganized retreat. Another African fell, or was shot. Those behind trampled him as they continued their pell-mell race away from the incoming rounds.

  The fourth mortar round exploded near the edge of the building. A new sound joined the foray—Thomaston tried to place it, but the whooping noise mixed with mortars, screams, and gunfire was too faint to stand out alone. Along with the noise, huge clouds of dirt and dust from the explosions, bodies, and body parts filled the air. Many of the enemy were sent tumbling across the ground, only to discover themselves unharmed when they stood. Those ran harder toward the front gate of the armory. That fourth round must have changed the Arabs’ minds, thought Thomaston as he watched them join the Africans in the mad dash to safety. They were in full retreat. Thomaston held up his hand to stop his people from firing. They might need the few remaining bullets they had. He stood straight, and watched the flight for a few more seconds. More time bought, he thought. The whistle of a fifth mortar round flew overhead. The round clipped the east side of the armory building, the explosion sending bricks flying into the air. A sixth round passed over the building and exploded somewhere in front.

  “Listen,” he said.

  From the front of the building and out of sight came the new sound of heavy-machine-gun fire accompanied by screams of pain. The whoop-whoop sounds from earlier rose in intensity. Another explosion outside of the armory rocketed debris skyward. Sure sounded like a helicopter to him, thought Thomaston. He glanced at the tree-encrusted hill to the south. The noise of large-caliber machine guns reached his ears. More than one.

  “Sounds like fifty-caliber,” Thomaston said.

  “Guess those Arab allies don’t like their African brothers running for their lives,” Roosevelt said.

  Craig Gentle ran up beside the general, touching Thomaston on the shoulder. “Never thought I would see this. Christ! What lousy shots those assholes are. Ought to give that A-rab mortar-er a Bronze Star!”

  “Thought you were going to make a hole in the east wall.”

  “Would have, but Lincoln’s disabling of the vehicles was very thorough.”

  An explosion from behind knocked Thomaston into Gentle, throwing both toward the ground. Thomaston threw his arms out, saving his head from slamming against the pavement. These explosions were going to kill him, and he had yet to be hit by one.

  The two men rolled apart and raised their M-16’s toward the east wall.

  “Well, there’s our hole, General.”

  A ruse! The enemy was behind them and the rebel force had now closed their only chance of escape.

  Thomaston rose to a crouching position. One knee on the hot pavement and the other bent so his left foot could push him upright at a moment’s notice. There was no other place to go. At least the miscalculated mortar fire had eaten into the forces making the frontal assault. He had not believed this disorganized force of rebels hell-bent on reaching their cult version of heaven could mount a two-prong attack. A cloud of dust obscured where the explosion had destroyed the wall. The sound of gunfire rose in intensity out of sight from the front of the armory. If this is a small force unaware of what happened to their comrades in front, then Thomaston and his people might still have a chance.

  Bricks rolled to the side of the wall. Strands of sharp barbed wire swung, bouncing up and down, from where they hung by single strands to the remnants of the wall. He raised his M-16 to fire. Figures appeared out of the cloud. His finger tightened on the trigger. The camouflage utilities of a United States Marine emerged. Behind the man, additional Marines ran into the compound. Thomaston lowered his weapon. A patch displaying the United States flag was prominent on their right shoulders. The Marines flowed past the survivors and surged forward, charging after the fleeing attackers. Other Marines rushed into the makeshift defensive perimeter along the edge of the pavement.

  A CH-53 appeared suddenly overhead, the noise of its straining engines filling the air. Then two of the strangest flying machines Thomaston had ever seen crossed east to west at about one hundred feet, heading toward the fight out front. White, about thirty feet long. As he watched, each fired a single missile. The missiles arched for a moment and then, with white spiraling contrails following, they disappeared in front of the armory building. Two large explosions quickly followed as the missiles hit their targets. Two huge white clouds burst into the air, followed immediately by dark roiling smoke. No cockpit. The things wiggled their wings as they circled overhead for another pass and disappeared toward the front, weaving right to avoid the dark smoke rising from the building. What in the hell—

  The cheers from the townspeople drew his attention. Thomaston counted twenty Marines before he stopped. An unexpected emotional surge caused his eyes to well for a moment. The U.S. Marines had arrived. Damn! Why couldn’t it be Army? HOOAH! A second and a third CH-53 roared over the armory, lower this time, sending stinging clouds of dirt and rock into the air. The heat from their engines raised the temperature while they passed overhead. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes enveloped those below. The CH-53’s passed over the south wall. Both noses of the helicopters angled into the air slightly as the two large troop carriers changed their forward momentum to a momentary hover. Then, they quickly disappeared behind the wall, landing in the field between the armory and the rain forest. Combat landing!

  Two Marines stopped and exchanged a few words with one of the women in the rear. She pointed toward Thomaston and Gentle. The two men ran toward Daniel Thomaston. People along the way reached out to touch them. Most stood—laughing, crying, family members hugging each other, celebrating the appearance of U.S. Marines. Thomaston smiled. The helmet had the black but familiar s
pread-wing eagle of a colonel in its center. This would be the leader of the rescue party. Behind the two men, Reverend Hew stood alone.

  The men slowed to a walk and saluted as they neared.

  “General Thomaston, I am Colonel Charles Battersby. Sir, hate to be a killjoy and interrupt your fun, but Admiral Holman insisted I pass along his compliments to you, sir, and apologize for the delay. Seems he had to work out a little disagreement with one of our allies before we could deploy.”

  Thomaston returned the salute and shook hands. Damn! He wanted to hug this big son of a bitch. His throat constricted slightly. Thomaston smiled, cleared his throat, and replied. “Colonel Battersby, it’s about time you showed up,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaken as he felt. Thomaston coughed. “We thought we were going to have to whip their asses by ourselves.” He turned to Gentle. “Colonel, this is my sergeant major—Craig Gentle—late of the Eighty-second Airborne.”

  “Sergeant Major,” Colonel Battersby said, nodding at the noncom. “General, I would like to tell you that you are relieved and we will finish the mopping up, but I respectfully ask your permission.”

  “Colonel, you have my permission.”

  “Colonel, great job with that mortar. We thought they were coming through the rear,” Gentle said.

  “Mortar?” Battersby looked at the lieutenant colonel standing to his left. “We didn’t fire any mortars, sir,” Battersby said. “We were making a low-level assault from the east when those rounds were fired. We marked the spot on the hill south of you where they originated, but when we saw they were targeting the enemy, we left them alone. Figured they were part of your elements.” Ignoring the questioning looks exchanged between Thomaston and Gentle, Battersby continued. “This is it for Marines, though. We have two Ospreys inbound,” he said, and as if hearing him, the two tilt-rotor aircraft appeared over the armory, their rotors tilting as they approached the makeshift landing zone in the south field.

  “Everyone we have is here that we know of, Colonel. If it wasn’t you firing that mortar, then we’ve got enemy fighters to the south of us,” Thomaston offered.

  “Not according to the UFAVs, sir. They did a reconnoiter minutes before we landed.”

  “You mean UAVs, Colonel?”

  “No, sir. Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles. But they have cameras, and if there are enemy fighters in that direction, then it’s not a large group. General, we need to start evacuating your people to the Boxer. If you would start moving your people through the gap and toward the Ospreys, we will start the evacuation.”

  Thomaston looked toward the gap in the east wall. If Marines could come through it, they could go out of it.

  A couple of men stepped over the remnants of the wall into the armory. One of them was white. Both wore civilian clothes. Where did they come from? he wondered.

  “General, I have to join my Marines, sir. If you would—”

  Thomaston reached out and shook Colonel Battersby’s hand. “Sure thing, Colonel. You go whup ass, and I will take care of getting everyone out of here.”

  Battersby saluted and the two Marines took off, jogging toward the burning armory building. The sound of fighting in front of the armory continued.

  “Who’s that?” Gentle asked, pointing to the two men standing just inside the hole in the wall.

  Thomaston shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably more refugees.”

  “One’s white.”

  “Not everyone has the luxury of being black, Craig.”

  “You know what I mean. I bet he’s CIA.”

  Thomaston thought for a moment. He did have an agreement with the Company. “If they are, they’ll let us know.” He turned his attention away and smiled. “Sergeant Major, let’s start everyone moving.” When he looked back at the gap, three women and two young boys had crawled through the gap.

  The slender woman with the shorter skirt was carrying a young girl. The young girl curled against the woman’s chest with both of her small hands wedged into her eyes. Even from here, he saw spittle running out of the girl’s mouth.

  This group of newcomers was pushed aside as the crowd surged forward at the direction of a couple of Marines who were shouting directions.

  Thomaston turned and leaned against the SUV. In another time, another era, another life, he would have rushed forward to the sound of gunfire. The term LGOP came to mind—a combat rule that meant command and control had broken down. In this case, he was the LGOP—“Little Group of Paratroopers.” When you had a bunch of LGOPs running around, many times you were in as much danger from them as you were from the enemy. LGOPs subscribed to the combat order to soldiers that when you are lost and don’t know where you’re supposed to be, march toward the sound of gunfire and kill everyone you encounter not wearing your uniform. The sound of gunfire in front seemed to slacken, and then suddenly stopped altogether.

  ABU ALHAUL STARED FROM THE EDGE OF THE JUNGLE TO the west, trembling with rage at the devastating effect the Marines’ superior firepower had on his force. The Africans were useless as fighters. Look at them run. Look at the cowards run instead of standing up and fighting until death for the honor of martyrdom.

  “Abu Alhaul,” Abdo said softly. The overweight and taller man reached forward and tugged on his brother’s shirt. “We must go, Abu. There will be other days to complete this mission.”

  Abu Alhaul shook his head. “One more hour and we would have overrun the Americans.” He raised his fist and shook it. “Why am I surrounded by cowards? Why cannot I have the fruit of the madrassas here to rush forward to give their lives for Allah?” he asked angrily, referring to young men and women taken as toddlers and trained in religious schools for the purpose of martyrdom. “I will show them how to do it,” he said, and stepped forward.

  Abdo grabbed him, his massive arms reaching easily around the smaller man. “Ah, Abu Alhaul, if I allow you to sacrifice yourself, then your other plan will fall apart. Your chance to show the world the vulnerability of the Great Satan. I don’t think you want that to happen. Do you?”

  After a few seconds, Abu Alhaul stopped struggling. Abdo was right. “You may release me. You are right. Allah has a greater purpose for me before I join him.” He felt the massive arms relax. Abu Alhaul reached up and pushed them gently aside. Then, he turned. Behind him not only stood Abdo, but also his retinue of Islamic guards who had sworn an oath to give their lives for him and Allah. If he had charged forward toward martyrdom, every one of them would have come gladly to their deaths with him.

  Abdo reached down and picked up the AK-47, Abu Alhaul’s personal weapon of choice. “Here, my brother.” Abdo pointed deeper into the undergrowth. “We must go.”

  “And we must ensure the ship is ready for America.”

  Abdo nodded in response. “It is nearly ready. Only a few things to do before it sails.”

  The two walked through the bodyguards and followed the three men hacking a path deeper into the rain forest. The last man bringing up the rear overheard the comment about the ship. He had to find out more about it. Langley would want to know.

  GEORGE REACHED OVER AND PULLED VICTORIA BACK BESIDE him. “Don’t want you to get trampled as they leave.”

  “I think we should have stayed outside,” Jamal whispered to Cannon.

  “We didn’t know Marines were going to show up,” Cannon said, his head going back and forth as he watched the people leave. He pointed toward the two men talking near the SUV. “That’s General Thomaston. He’s the one who founded Kingsville.”

  Jamal looked at the smoke rising from the houses in town. The big place on top of the small rise in front of the armory had flames licking through the windows. “Don’t look like much of a town now.” As he watched, the roof of the community center caved in, sending embers high into the air.

  “What you think, Parker?” Joel asked.

  Parker spit away from the crowd. “I think we should have stayed outside. Just my luck to get where I want to go to find everyone leavi
ng and us at the end of the line.”

  Joel laughed. “Someone always has to be at the end of the line.”

  Parker grinned. “This time it’ll be you, white boy.”

  “You two stop that,” Artimecy said, taking Parker by the hand.

  A Marine Corps corporal walked over to them. “Excuse me, if you follow the line, we are starting the evacuation.”

  “Wonder where they’re taking us,” Jamal said.

  Cannon shrugged. “Don’t know, but I hope they got food.”

  Victoria reached over and tussled Jamal’s hair. He looked up. “Selma?” he asked.

  “What?” she replied softly, her voice muffed against Victoria’s shoulder. His sister kept her fists pressed against her eyes and her head pushed down onto Victoria’s bosom.

  “We may be going to find Mom and Dad.”

  She shook her head. “No, we aren’t. Mom and Dad are dead. Even I know that,” she said, and then began to cry. “Even I know that.”

  Somewhere deep inside, he knew that Mom, Dad, and big brother Abdul were dead. He just didn’t want to admit it. He fought back the tears. Jamal didn’t want Cannon to see him cry.

  Cannon looked at his new friend for a few seconds, and then walked over to his father. “Dad, we going with them?”

  The Marine motioned to them.

  “I don’t think we’re going to have much choice,” said Joel.

  Jamal looked up as the two strange aircraft passed overhead. How did the pilot see? he asked himself. There’re no windows in the thing. Victoria’s hand pushed lightly against his back, urging him toward the hole in the wall. Ahead walked Cannon with his family and the older couple. He hoped this adventure ended soon. When it did, he knew the only good news would be that he kept his promise to his mother and led Selma and himself to safety.

  IT HAD BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE THE BATTLE. HOLMAN STOOD on the flight deck. Thomaston turned as he put one foot on the steps leading into the CH-53 Sea Stallion. He waved, and in two quick steps was inside.