Africa jtf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “Damn,” he finally said, moving away from the tree. “Scared the shit out of me.” He bent over, trying to see where the animal disappeared and tripped, the radio falling out of the pocket, hitting the ground, and tumbling a few times before coming to rest right-side up. Razi quickly picked it up, muttering obscenities to himself as he dusted the vegetation from it. He pushed the button, his eyes searching for anything else that might attack him. “ Commander, you still there?” he asked, heard the high pitch sound of his voice, and immediately stopped.

  Nothing. Christ, if it’s broke, he’d have to walk out of here and no telling how many years that would take. His daughter would be married with kids by the time he emerged. “Chief Razi, I presume,” they’d say. A slight chill washed over him at the thought. He pressed the button again, and with his voice in a slightly calmer tone, called for Lieutenant Commander Peeters again. “Ranger 20, this is Chief Razi. You still out there?” How could he check it, if no one answered?

  Static emerged from the small speaker on the side. Someone was answering him. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Not for much longer, Chief. We’re about thirty miles from you and starting to descend back to Monrovia. We’ll be back tomorrow. Stay safe, shipmate.” The voice faded as Razi listened.

  “Well, at least it still works,” he said, smiling. He knew they’d be back tomorrow. It went without saying that when your shipmate was down, your duty was to go get him. Razi turned the volume down and slipped the radio back into his survival-vest pocket. The radio pocket was near the center of his chest, so Razi would easily hear any further transmissions it picked up. He warned himself to turn the radio off and conserve the batteries. Nearly an hour later and he estimated a half-mile farther, he heeded his own advice, slipped his hand into the pouch, and flipped the radio off. He buckled the top of the pouch so the radio wouldn’t fall out again.

  Razi kept moving, his thirst growing. He had expected moving through the jungle to be like the dreams where he was running and no matter how fast he ran, his legs moved as if wading through molasses. Instead, this was more like a stroll in a North Carolina woods, except the shade was thicker, trapping the heat and humidity and shutting out the sunlight. He pulled back the Velcro holding the sleeve of the flight suit tight, slid the sleeve back, and checked his watch. A little after 1600 in the afternoon — even in his thoughts, time was military. What in the hell was a sailor doing in the middle of the jungle? If someone had asked him prior to this morning if he would ever bail out of an aircraft, he would have laughed. He had always told people, and himself, that if he ever had to ditch an aircraft, it would be over water, and he’d be with others leaning back against the bright orange sides of a life raft, waiting for rescue. Jungles were for Marines and soldiers. He shouldn’t even be here. If Peeters hadn’t been looking at him, he wouldn’t have bailed out.

  For the first time, he started to worry about where he was going to sleep. He couldn’t sleep on the ground. The man-eaters were everywhere. Look at the one that shot out from under the bushes, missed him, and took off running. Lieutenant Commander Peeters’s attempt to make him feel better was admirable, but Razi knew better than to trust everything a lieutenant commander said. They were good for your career, but if you hung around too long, they’d crucify you. Lieutenant commanders were “wanna-be” commanders. He even knew one who had gone to the Navy uniform shop and bought every shoulder device, all the way up to four-star admiral. Sure, they could argue he was self-promoting, but every chief should own the devices all the way up to master chief petty officer. He wasn’t always going to be a chief. One of these days, the Bureau of Naval Personnel, in their infinite reasoning, would recognize that he was a senior chief wearing the chief petty officer device, and then they would promote him. He smiled. Damn, this bailout would force them to promote him. He ought to be thanking Peeters instead of blaming him.

  Chief petty officers had more problems with lieutenant commanders than any other officer rank. “Give me an ensign any day,” Razi said aloud. “One would be good right now.” Man-eaters probably prefer younger meat to tough, sinewy chief petty officers.

  Most lieutenant commanders were a pain in the ass. Senior enough they didn’t believe they were junior officers and junior enough they didn’t have much real authority. Some were all right, Razi guessed, but Christ, they were hard to train.

  Razi pushed aside some limbs to find a fallen tree blocking his path. Razi stopped and rubbed his chin as he looked at it. So far, he hadn’t had to make any decisions other than to keep moving in the same direction. The tree posed a problem as it disappeared on both ends into deep bushes. Clambering through the bushes to go around this thing didn’t appeal to him. He took the two steps needed so he could touch it. The top of the fallen tree was slightly higher than his chest. He couldn’t see over it because of the vegetation that blocked his view. In the woods of North Carolina, you never stepped over a fallen tree. Snakes like to take refuge beneath fallen trees.

  Razi jumped back quickly, leaned, and looked along the base of the tree. They definitely had snakes here. Those that weren’t poisonous could swallow you whole. What he wouldn’t give to have another chief here. “Ummmm what was the name of that new flight engineer? She’d be a welcome distraction.”

  A rustle from the bushes near to his left caught Razi’s attention. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Images of lions, tigers, gorillas, and a lost race of Amazons raced through his mind. Without taking his eyes off the rustling bushes, Razi opened his survival vest and pulled his survival knife out of its sleeve. He turned slightly, facing the rustling bushes. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, realizing at the same time his breath was rapid and quick. Damn straight, he was scared, but whatever was in that bush would easily chase him down and in a couple of bites, he’d be a memory.

  The bushes quieted and after a couple of minutes, Razi told himself whatever had been there had left. He lowered the knife, straightened, and laughed aloud. Something small and furry shot from under the bushes and dashed across the top of the fallen tree. The laughter stopped abruptly as Razi slashed back and forth in the air with the survival knife. He stumbled back, tripping over a vine. The knife flew into the air as the small creature jumped off the tree and disappeared into the bushes on the other side. The knife came down on the tree trunk, the blade sticking into it.

  Razi laughed again, his head going back and forth. He stepped forward and pulled the knife out of the trunk. Good thing I didn’t have another chief petty officer here. I’d never live this down.

  “You stupid shit,” he said. “Letting a small thing like that scare you. Some sort of rabbit, I guess” He placed his hand against his chest, feeling rapid heartbeats. “Damn glad no one saw that,” he mumbled.

  A loud roar filled the jungle, causing Razi to jump. He looked back the way he had come, half-expecting to see whatever caused the roar bounding down the trail at him. The roar lingered through the jungle. Razi turned back to the fallen tree and leaped. Two steps and he was in the middle of the limbs, clawing his way over the top of the trunk, scrambling for the other side. A second roar, closer and louder, emerged from his right, sent his heart racing anew. There was a pack of them out there, and years from now when chiefs sat around the winter fire asking each other whatever happened to poor Razi, he’d be part of some lion’s DNA somewhere. Not the way he wanted to go. He stopped for moment, at the far edge of the tree trunk. The way seemed clear, but he couldn’t see what was beneath it. There was still the risk of snakes, and what if the lions had dug out a den under the fallen tree. It’d be like home delivery if he jumped into the middle of a lion’s den.

  He raised his knife and bent his knees. Then, he straightened again. Maybe he should jump backward, he told himself, turning so he faced the way he had just come. This way, when he landed, he’d be facing whatever was beneath the trunk. Another loud roar rattled the trees. He raised his knife. On the other hand, if he landed facing the way he wanted to go,
he could land running. He bent his knees and jumped. He stumbled when he landed, falling onto his back. He looked at the tree trunk expecting to see feral eyes staring at him, but there was nothing but trunk and vines. He laughed. His own imagination was going to kill him. More roars echoed through the trees, rising in tempo to only stop suddenly. Starting low, rising in intensity each time; and each time it seemed to him the roars were getting closer. The chattering of animals in the trees drew his attention as he stood up, brushing himself off with his free hand. Whatever was out there was scaring the monkeys, also.

  The trees above him disappeared from view as a second later, rain showered Razi, soaking him and sending water penetrating into his flight suit. One moment the jungle was hot, humid, but dry; and the next, Razi couldn’t see ten feet because of the heavy, thick, summer rain pelting the jungle, the noise of it hitting the surrounding vegetation drowning out the rustling of the wind. Several roars echoed in tandem and Razi breathed a sigh of relief. The roars that had sent him crashing across the fallen tree he recognized now. They had been no more than thunder, muffled by the jungle in which he marched. That was what the monkeys were fleeing; thunder. He pushed himself up, laughing aloud as he turned forward and continued to push through the overlapping bushes paralleling the faint trail he followed. He gripped the knife tight, not wanting to drop it, but not completely convinced he could put it away. What if it wasn’t thunder he had heard? What if lions, tigers, and such were out there, tracking him, waiting for him to relax his alertness so they could rush in and finish him off. No, the knife remained in his hand in the event those roars had not been thunder. It wasn’t as if he’d spent a lot of time in the jungles, but the knife was a comfort.

  * * *

  Rockdale opened his eyes. He raised his hand and touched his head. His body tilted to the right. He quickly lowered his hand. He raised his head. A crisscross of limbs had stopped his fall. The sound of a limb cracking behind him drew his attention. He turned his head slowly. The main limb holding him was bent forward, broken nearly in half, the inside white of the limb easily visible and easily fresh. The creaking continued, so Rockdale laid his head back against the leaves. The cracking sound stopped. As long as he lay in this position, he should be all right, but eventually he was going to have to move. He could not stay there until rescue arrived. Lieutenant Commander Peeters had told him and MacGammon to find Carson.

  “Rockdale, you all right?” MacGammon shouted from below him.

  Rockdale turned his head to the right. A parting of the leaves showed MacGammon standing a few feet below him without his helmet on. “I’m okay. Where are we?”

  “I’m standing on the ground. You are laying in a bed of limbs about eight feet off the ground.”

  “Eight feet?”

  “Well, it could be more, but you’re not going to kill yourself if you sit up and jump down here with me.” MacGammon held up his parachute. “I saved my parachute, so we can build some shelter for tonight.”

  Rockdale raised his head again. The creaking of the breaking limb started anew. He searched with his hands until both found small limbs to hold onto, and then he pushed himself up. The crack was sharp.

  “Damn, Rocky!”

  Rockdale went sliding forward, riding the breaking limb down like a chute on a playground. The ground was coming toward him — fast. Rockdale bent his knees as the tree delivered him to the ground in a standing position. When he stepped away, the limbs bounced back up, hitting him in the back and shoving him forward a few steps.

  “Well, you got down a little easier than I did, Rocky.”

  Rockdale touched his helmet gingerly on the left side. He unbuckled the chin strap and lifted the clear visor before pulling it off and laying it on the ground beside him. Then, he reached up and touched his head, bringing away blood on his hand.

  “Looks as if you’ve bumped your head. Damn good thing you had your helmet on.” MacGammon unzipped his survival vest and pulled out the small first-aid kit each of them had. “Here, sit down so I can bandage you.”

  Rockdale eased himself onto the brown jungle floor.

  “You okay, Rocky? You haven’t said a word.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “Of course it hurts. Why wouldn’t it hurt? You banged yourself upside the head, and you’re bleeding like a—”

  “Stuck pig. Don’t say it.”

  “Now you’ve done it,” MacGammon said as he held the square gauze over the cut.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You know what I mean.” MacGammon fell onto his knees, pulling the tape out with one hand and using his teeth to rip it. A couple of minutes later the third class petty officer had spread anti-bacteria cream on the cut and a bandage was across the cut.

  “This ain’t going to stay on long, you know? The cut isn’t that deep, but it’s bleeding. Head wounds do that, you know?” He leaned away from Rockdale. “You know what your problem is?” MacGammon asked as he stood. “You got too much hair. If you had gotten a haircut like Badass told you—”

  “How long have I been out?” Rockdale asked, reaching up and gently patting the bandage.

  MacGammon shrugged. “Not too long. I watched you fall, but there wasn’t much I could do. We needed the parachute; that’s what they taught us in SEER training. I hurried as fast as I could, but I finished rolling the parachute before I worked my way down the trunk to check on you. I figured there wasn’t much I could do for you. Either you were going to still be alive or you were going to be dead. Either way, I’d need the parachute.” MacGammon held up the parachute. “You know, Rocky, it was amazing, really amazing. Did you know that nearer the trunk of the trees, there’s fewer leaves, so it was kinda like climbing down a weird ladder — know what I mean?”

  Rockdale shook his head. It hurt. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Just tell me how long have I been out?” Rockdale asked, irritation with MacGammon showing in his voice.

  “Don’t get angry with me, boyo. You’re the one who fell, not me.” MacGammon turned and walked away, his head turning as if searching for something.

  “You could have come down and checked on me before taking your time with the parachute.”

  MacGammon shrugged. “Look, asshole, I’ve already told you. Either you were going to be alive or you were going to be dead. Wasn’t gonna help either of us if I hurried down, found you dead, and didn’t bring my parachute. Now, would it?”

  “You could have gone back up for it.”

  MacGammon laughed. “And what if I’d gotten down and couldn’t climb back up. Wow, Rocky! You mental geniuses bug the shit out of me.”

  Rockdale ignored MacGammon. Thought, MacGammon, you’re a pain in the ass. Rockdale pushed himself up on his elbows. How would he explain to the rescuers why he throttled his shipmate minutes after they landed? He smiled at the irony of being stranded with a dumb-shit like MacGammon.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  Rockdale shook his head once, causing a rush of pain across his scalp. “Nothing,” he said, reaching up and holding his head for moment. “We need to find Carson.”

  MacGammon shrugged. “Just because the commander told us to find him doesn’t mean we have to.”

  “Mac, you wanna leave Stetson out here to die?” Rockdale asked incredulously.

  MacGammon opened his mouth for a moment, shut it, and then said softly, “No, guess I don’t, but I don’t want to wander too far from here. The aircraft commander did say they had us located. So, if we’re going to find him, we need to do it soon and we need to bring him back here. I don’t want us getting lost and discovering that when the rescue helos show up, they can’t find us. Won’t help us, nor help Stetson.” MacGammon looked around the area again. “You have any ideas on how we’re gonna go about it? It ain’t as if this jungle ain’t a jungle.”

  Rockdale reached out, braced himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, and stood. Little white dots danced around his vision. First a few, then growing in su
ch number that they hurt his eyes, forcing him to shut them. Must have been a hell of a blow to cause this. A feeling of nausea rushed over him and for a few seconds, Rockdale believed he was going to throw up. He was afraid to lean forward, afraid he’d pass out and fall, but if he threw up in this position, the vomit would run down his flight suit. He opened his eyes. And into his helmet, the way he was standing. He turned his head. Rockdale didn’t want to spend the short time they were going to be on the ground walking around in a barf-covered flight suit, and he’d need the helmet when they rescued them.

  “You’d better sit down, Rocky, before you fall. That must have been some blow to stagger you like that.” MacGammon reached out and took him by the arm. “ Probably hit several limbs coming down.”

  Rockdale felt the man’s hands on his arm and meekly allowed himself to be led away. He opened his eyes. The white spots were still there, but he could see the jungle surrounding them — varying shades of green intermixed with browns. Sharp odors of decaying humus assailed his nostrils. He stumbled, causing pain to shoot up his leg where his foot had tangled with a thick vine.

  “Whoa, boy. Don’t go falling on me. You weigh too much for this New Jersey lad to have to carry you.”

  Another arm enveloped his shoulders and, involuntarily, he leaned on the shorter sailor’s shoulder.

  “Here, sit here and let me get you some water. You must have a concussion or something.”

  Rockdale bent his knees, reaching out with his free hand to ease himself down onto the moist ground. MacGammon had moved them nearer the other man’s tree where the limbs and leaves above shaded the area, keeping other plants from taking root. The clearing was about ten feet across, running downhill to where a wall of bushes, bramble, and vines wove an impenetrable wall of vegetation.

  They both looked up as the noise of rolling thunder rode through the jungle.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” MacGammon said, tossing the rolled up parachute onto the ground beside Rockdale. “We may need that, and to think, I just tied it together a few minutes ago.”