Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  “Those are the ones who will have to stay with me to pin down as many of the attackers as we can,” Thomaston replied, pointing to the growing crowd along both sides of the burning building. “Or those are the ones who will be sacrificed to save the few who do make it to the jungle.”

  Gentle grinned. “Only you would think of going on the offensive when you’re outnumbered five or six — probably ten to one.”

  “Yeah, Sergeant Major — but there’s two of us.”

  Gentle laughed. “I’ve heard that joke, sir. Too many times, and believe it was you who told me. I suspect that between you and me we can keep them occupied long enough for the others to get out.”

  Thomaston shook his head and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This time, Craig, we separate. I’ll remain.” He held up his hand, palm out at Gentle. “No, no argument. I’ve been shot at, blown up, and knocked six ways to Sunday today. You’ll have to lead them out and through the jungle to the coast. Hopefully, our Navy and Marine Corps brethren will spot you.”

  “No, General. I think this time I shall ignore your orders. I think I’m staying here with you, sir. There are others who can lead them out—”

  * * *

  “Americans! This is Amir Abu Alhaul!” a bullhorn boomed in sharp accented English.

  Thomaston spotted the man standing on the south side of the building. So this was the notorious Abu Alhaul who the United States had been searching for since he massacred those Americans in Kuwait. And those must be his lackeys surrounding him. The bearded man was close enough to see their position. A good sniper could take him out.

  Thomaston raised his hand and waved. Talking was time, and time was the thing they needed most. They were nearly out of ammunition, and there was no place to go but a little bit deeper into the vehicle park until the east wall stopped them.

  “Craig, get that east wall blown.”

  A man with a white flag marched forward, his slippers sliding a little on the sloping ground. The messenger wore a long white aba stained with blood and soot. He stopped about thirty feet from the perimeter. He drew back—

  “Don’t shoot!” Thomaston shouted.

  — and threw a container.

  * * *

  “Those are my terms for your surrender, Americans!”

  The container landed in the center of the perimeter. Samson ran forward, grabbed the container, and handed it to Thomaston. He pulled two sheets of paper from it. Thomaston read the first one, his anger building as he read the second. The offer of safe passage was there. The same offer made to the holdouts in Kuwait. The other demand was something to which he could agree even less.

  “What does he want? Us to give up and have him slit our throats one at a time?” Tawela Johnson asked.

  Thomaston looked to the left. It took a second or two to recognize the slim young woman from yesterday. Her hair had been singed off. Dull, dried streaks of blood covered her right arm. The right side of her attractive face was swollen; one eye was completely shut by the swelling. Probably a near-miss mortar explosion.

  “Something like that,” Thomaston said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “First, we lay down our weapons, march out, and give him the vehicles.”

  The eyes of the old soldier locked with the eyes of the young woman.

  “Y’all ain’t gonna do that, I hope?”

  “General, we don’t have the ammunition or firepower to last much longer,” Reverend Hew interjected. “I am sure if we follow his terms and let him have his victory, at least we will live. God is working—”

  “If we give him the armory and these vehicles, at least he can’t use them,” a townsmen said, holding up a handful of spark-plug coils. He drew back and threw, scattering them among the vehicles. He brushed his hands together. “There! They’ll play havoc trying to separate them. The vehicles are dead. Screw them.”

  Craig Gentle handed the paper back to the general. “According to this, General, the women and children can go free. He guarantees to escort them to Ivory Coast and out of the country.”

  “He’s lying. To him, every one of us is a threat to his subjugation of the world into some Islamic caliphate. He knows if he allows the women to live, more Americans will be born. You allow the children to live, and then your children will have to fight them. No, I’ve already seen what they offer. In their minds, we’re heretics. No better than sheep hung up and their throats cut as an offering to their Allah.” Thomaston glanced around at the people crammed into the vehicle park. He wished he had time to talk with each of them. “Yeah, God works in mysterious ways,” he mumbled.

  “Are we going to give the people the choice?” Reverend Hew asked.

  Thomaston shook his head. “Reverend, this is war, not a democracy. No choices. We — they made it when we emigrated to Liberia. This country is as much ours as America is.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “You disagree, Sergeant Major?”

  Gentle nodded once. “No, I don’t, General. Well, maybe a little, but I’ve spent too much of my life following you to decide otherwise at a time like this.”

  Thomaston looked toward the ridge where more enemy continued to file into the ranks. “Kind of like the Alamo, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And the Indians are in front.”

  Thomaston chuckled weakly. “Didn’t know there were Indians at the Alamo.”

  “And there aren’t any in front either.”

  Reverend Hew turned and walked back to a group of townspeople. He began to tell them what Thomaston intended and that they were not going to be able to decide whether to surrender or fight. That this man they expected to lead them to safety was now giving away their only hope to live. God wanted them to live, and to follow God’s ways meant they must accept the word of Abu Alhaul.

  Thomaston heard the harangue, but ignored it. Without looking, he knew the townspeople were dividing into two camps. Those who would continue to fight, and those willing to throw themselves on the false mercy of this radical believing they would be allowed to go free.

  He crumpled the note and crammed it back inside the metal container. He tossed it up a couple of times and turned to Gentle. “Better breach that back wall, Sergeant Major. You’re going to need it soon.”

  Gentle pointed at Reverend Hew. “Don’t know if many would follow, sir. Maybe I should remain here and help you implement General George Patton’s philosophy of making the other fellow die for his country.”

  Thomaston laughed. “If he had a country. What should we tell this little asshole?”

  “Sir, it should be something that history books can quote.”

  “So, I guess ’Fuck Off and Die’ wouldn’t be something schoolchildren could be taught or politicians could quote?”

  Tawela Johnson hobbled forward to the side of Reverend Hew. The crowd around the reverend was growing as others gathered to listen to what the religious leader of Kingsville was saying. Tawela heard the exchange between Thomaston and Gentle, changed direction, and joined the two men.

  A white bandage around her arm was covered in fresh blood. “How about ‘Bite me,’ ” she offered.

  “You heard?”

  “I think some of us did, General.”

  Those in the rear, out of hearing range, could only hear Reverend Hew trying to raise a rebellion against Thomaston. Reverend Hew, who was convinced the majority of the townspeople would follow him in accepting Abu Alhaul’s terms. Why wouldn’t they, Thomaston thought. The man has his God, Abu Alhaul has his Allah, and never the twain shall meet.

  Thomaston sighed and turned. Everyone seemed to be staring at him. His eyes trailed over the armed defenders crouched around the vehicles. You never knew what the Israelis put up with until it happened to you. There was another God; Yahweh. Wish the three of those Gods would get together and fight it out and leave their people on earth alone. His eyes lingered for a moment on those still manning their weapons — those on the front line of this last redoubt. A soldier never chooses who he or she will die with.
Bandages, dirt, anger, fear, and blood marked his ragtag militia. They knew. Everyone knew death was swinging his sickle this day. Most had lived what many would call a full life. Every one of them wanted to experience more before God, Yahweh, Allah, or whatever clocked them out. He wondered if any understood the historical importance this stand might take on. What they did here today could become either a rally or a dirge for Africa and America.

  He propped the papers on the side of the Ford Expedition and wrote his reply. He handed it to Retired Sergeant Major Craig Gentle, who read, grinned, stuffed it back in the container, and tossed the thing toward the rebels.

  “What did you say, General?” Tawela and Revered Hew asked simultaneously.

  Reverend Hew saw Gentle throw the canister. “Stop him!” he shouted. The reverend ran toward Gentle, his hands out.

  “He told Abu Alhaul, ‘You have five minutes to surrender your forces to the Army of Free Liberia.’ ”

  Gentle struck out, knocking Reverend Hew’s arms down, and causing the elderly pastor to fall to the ground.

  Harold French sighed. “Guess that means we won’t worry about this heat much longer.” The tall, bulky American-Liberian pushed himself onto a knee and wiped blood from his cheek before shakily standing upright and moving to the front of the perimeter.

  “Be thankful it’s still morning.”

  One of the rebels ran forward, scooped up the canister, and ran to Abu Alhaul.

  Thomaston looked down. Two of the reverend’s followers ran forward, helped the reverend to his feet, and pulled him back with the rest of the townspeople. The general watched for a second, and then turned his attention to the front.

  “What is it the Indians say? ‘Today is a good day to die.’ ”

  Abu Alhaul opened the container. The Arab threw the container aside, read what Thomaston had written, and then wadded up the papers and tossed them away. The terrorist leader stroked his beard a couple of times before turning on his heels and disappearing around the corner of the building. There would be no further negotiations.

  Thomaston looked around the perimeter at the others. Some met his glance, most concentrated on the scene in front, a few sat on the hot pavement, and others surrounded the angry Reverend Hew, whispering in the glare of the hot sun. One made the sign of the cross across her head and chest. Thomaston ran his tongue over his lips, feeling the small cracks caused by the heat and sun. A deep sigh escaped.

  Gunfire erupted as the enemy, howling “Allah al Akbar” at the top of their voices, rushed the outnumbered Americans. Thomaston raised his M-16, and with the others sent many on to their Maker before they ever cleared the dead grass of the compound or reached the paved parking area.

  Around the side of the building a fresh wave of enemy appeared. Company size, Thomaston guessed. He fired a short burst at a group running along the south wall, trying to outflank the defenders and sneak into the vehicle park. If the townspeople could just hold until tonight, which would be a miracle, some of them might be able to escape. Gentle reached over and touched him. “Good luck, my friend.” They both knew they’d be lucky to last until noon.

  “Be careful, Craig.”

  The sergeant major nodded and ran toward the east wall. Tawela Johnson ran with him.

  The enemy reached the perimeter suddenly. Three African men jumped on top of a pickup truck on the south side, firing at the defenders along the front. The bullets sent three defenders slamming into the Ford SUV parked against the bumper of the Ford Expedition. Harold French took a bullet in his back. Dying on the burning pavement, he raised his M-16 and shot the three attackers.

  “Back up!” Thomaston shouted, motioning the remaining defenders to the rear line of vehicles. “To the rear.”

  They fought a retreating battle, blowing away attackers who seemed to fight for the chance to die as they scrambled over the tops and around the sides of the vehicles. Even as he fought, he waited to hear the crash that would mark Gentle blowing an opening through the east wall.

  Roughly ten militiamen remained able to fight as they backed toward the vehicles that created the back line of defense. The enemy poured around the Fords in front. Their firing was erratic as they shouted their prayer and jostled each other for the right to die for Islam or to kill an American. The inside of the perimeter was so crowded with rebels that every bullet found a target. The east wall was closing on them.

  Gentle was back there someplace, cranking a vehicle to run through the wall. Unless the sergeant major got it open soon, they would be massacred here. Those without weapons had already fled to the rear. Thomaston looked back. He caught a glimpse of Gentle running from vehicle to vehicle. The retired sergeant major was forcing his way through the mob of townspeople. Thomaston heard a shout, turned in time to see a rebel a couple of feet away with his machete raised. A shot from the side caught the rebel in the side catapulting him aside.

  It looked as if the chance to make that high-risk dash to the jungle was evaporating. There was still time, but it was measured in seconds. The key to how many would survive would be how many of the enemy they had tied up inside the armory. Even for the few who would make it out the opening before they were overrun, their only chance would be outside. Maybe more than he thought would make it to the jungle. With most of the enemy inside the armory, they would have to scramble out the gates to their vehicles to chase them down.

  Thomaston heard the mortar round coming. For a moment, he thought the rebels had decided in favor of instant death rather than saving the vehicles they wanted. Two Africans charged around the side of the school bus. Thomaston shot one and Samson Roosevelt killed the other.

  “Man, oh, man,” Roosevelt said aloud, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. “Man, oh, man.”

  The mortar round passed over their heads. Thomaston looked to the south, toward the jungles and rain forest. The same direction they had intended to flee. If Abu Alhaul’s forces were already there, the flight into the jungle would be the same death trap they were in now, with little chance of survival. Hope of escaping through the east wall was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Pauline, quit complaining. At least you will get to see Africa before we do. So just go with Alan and escort the Marines in. Jurgen and I will intercept the French fighter.”

  “Deathhead Leader, this is Deathhead Three,” Pauline replied formally. “Is this a male thing? Why do you get all the fun? If I recall the last flight, you crashed out of a dogfight. From what I remember—Hey! Speak up, Ensign Ichmens! We successfully shot down those Tomcats.”

  “Hey, don’t give Nash a rough time. He can’t help it if his piloting skills can’t hold an aircraft together in a fifty-G turn,” Valverde chided good-naturedly.

  “Deathhead Leader, this is Petty Officer Turner. I am your Air Intercept Controller, sir. I have you and Deathhead Four for intercept on bandit bearing three-two-zero from your position at altitude two-eight-zero,” Petty Officer Turner broadcast.

  Nash’s eyes blinked a couple of times, ridding them of that dry feeling caused by forced air circulating through the tight confines of the mock cockpit. Petty Officer Turner had told them that the lone unidentified aircraft was northwest of their UFAVs, flying at twenty-eight thousand feet. Everyone knew it was a French fighter, but until it was visually confirmed, it would remain an unidentified aircraft. So far, only the electronic-warfare technician had verified it as a Super Etendard. Considering there weren’t other aircraft carriers around carrying Super Etendard fighters, the process of elimination was easy.

  “Deathhead Two and Three, change to channel one. Petty Officer Watts,” Petty Officer Turner continued, “will be your Air Intercept Controller with the landing force.”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem too bad,” Pauline said on the private line that only the four of them could hear. “May see some action yet.” Then, on the connection with Combat, she replied, “AIC, Deathhead Three and Four changing to ATC channel one.”

  “See you back at homepla
te, Pauline; Alan. Take care.”

  “Alan, join up on my left side. Our link with the UFAVs is line of sight. That means we have to keep gaining altitude the farther we get from the ships. If we lose that data link, then…”

  She didn’t finish, but she didn’t need to. Loss of the critical control data link meant the UFAVs would automatically ascend to twenty-two thousand feet and start a circle pattern, five-mile-wide profile. The UFAVs would stay there, waiting for their owners to reclaim them electronically, until fuel reserves reached critical. Then they would put their nose over and dive into the ground, self-destructing all of the avionics, computer systems, and communications equipment on board, protecting the sensitive technology from non-American hands. The downside of this fail-safe mode was it had yet to be tested. The operational assessment of this fail-safe mode wasn’t scheduled for another two months.

  “Roger, understand,” Valverde replied.

  Nash listened for a few more moments to Pauline Kitchner and Alan Valverde form up before he mentally tuned them out. He reached over and pushed the data-link diagnostic-check button, holding it for three seconds. The lights glowed green. He and the ensign could have the same problem with their data link as Pauline had warned Alan about, but their aircraft were nearer the ship and had less chance of losing the data link.

  If they began to have problems with the control link, their console’s diagnostic lights would change slowly to red like a countdown sequence. Satellite relay would have been helpful, but the military only had limited space resources, and most of those had been relegated to the war in Indonesia.

  They had no satellite link available in this area to control a long-range flight, and the sunspot activity had rendered high-frequency control untenable. They were dependent on the very-high-frequency and ultra-high-frequency ranges. Those frequency ranges only worked when transmitter and receiver were in line of sight of each other. There was more to flying an unmanned aerial vehicle than a normal pilot had to know. Every one of them had been at one time or another a communicator, and with the exception of Alan, who was a cryptologist with Naval Security Group Command, all of them were qualified pilots.