Africa jtf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “Two days ago?”

  “Yes, sir. VQ-2 still has a ground detachment here cleaning up loose ends and packing spares.”

  “One measly near-miss and European Command decides the information from the reconnaissance missions aren’t worth the danger,” Holman said, his voice raised over the noise of the Humvee. “Would have been nice if they had asked us for our opinion before they made the decision.”

  “Mary Davidson is at the hospital, Admiral. She had an opportunity to talk with Chief Razi before he went into surgery this morning. We should get some insight as to where he’s been—” The Humvee swerved to avoid several Liberians pushing and shoving an obstinate donkey that had stopped in the middle of a bridge. Holman grabbed the dashboard.

  “Damn, we’re going to follow the chief into surgery at this rate. Corporal, where did you get your license?”

  “License? License, Admiral? Damn, sir, I’m a United States Marine. I don’t need a license, sir. The colonel though—”

  Holman looked over his shoulder at Upmann. “Remind me to have a word with the colonel when I see him.”

  “I think he must have taken offense when you ordered him to cease and desist from having their toys following you around the ship.”

  “Those things are like Georgia mosquitoes, buzzing around you, shooting past you, and then blocking your vision so you trip and fall.”

  “Admiral, VQ-2 left a senior chief in charge of the ground detail. It’s my understanding that the man is a friend and shipmate of Chief Razi’s.”

  The Humvee barreled through an intersection, took a curve leaning to the right; wheels squealing as the weight of the vehicle shifted.

  “I think that was a stop sign we went through,” Holman said.

  “Don’t know, Admiral. We were going too fast to tell.”

  “Corporal!”

  “Sir, I have slowed down; it’s just that this is straight stick, and I’m used to an automatic.”

  “We don’t have automatic transmissions in military vehicles.”

  The corporal turned his head, facing Holman. “Sir, I know, and I explained that to the colonel, but he said this was a great time to learn.”

  “Watch the road!”

  Holman turned to Upmann, who was laughing in the back seat. “Sure, go ahead and laugh. You’re back there. Sometimes I think the Marines go to great lengths to figure out how to scare their Navy counterparts.”

  “The colonel says as soon as we Marines learn to walk on water, we won’t need a navy anymore.”

  Holman shook his head. “Leo, how serious are the chief’s injuries?”

  “There’s the hospital, sir,” the driver said, looking at Holman and pointing forward.

  “Son, do us all a favor and watch the road.”

  “He has a cut down the left side of his chest that has become infected, along with smaller injuries from the bailout and his sojourn through jungle.”

  “Broken bones, internal injuries?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  The driver whipped the steering wheel to the left, and slid into the driveway leading to the front entrance of the hospital. Gravel spun out to the side, ricocheting off the wooden sign with the hospital’s name. The small one-story building glared in the bright morning sunlight from freshly applied whitewash. Screens covering the windows had specks and blobs of white paint splattered on them. The driver slammed on the brakes, stopping the Humvee right in front of the entrance. The engine coughed a couple of times and stalled. “Here we are, Admiral. I’ll park over there,” the corporal said, pointing at the parking lot, “and wait for you.” The young Marine’s head was down and bobbing back and forth as he stared at his feet.

  The dust from their entrance caught up with the Humvee, covering the three men with fine red dirt.

  Holman clamped his mouth shut, squinted his eyes from the dust cloud, unbuckled, and slid out of the opened door onto the graveled driveway, quickly heading up the few steps toward the doors of the hospital. A couple of white-clad male nurses stood to one side smoking cigarettes. Upmann shoved the seat forward.

  “Corporal, stick shifts need the clutch pushed down when you’re stopping.”

  Upmann quickly caught up to Holman as the admiral stepped inside the breezeway. Overhead fans turned slowly, shifting the humid air to keep the African heat moving. The sharp odor of ammonia assailed their nostrils for a moment, attesting to the Liberian effort to keep this newest hospital sterilized. Holman wiped the dust and sweat from his face.

  Captain Mary Davidson, Holman’s intelligence officer, saw the two men and hurried toward the admiral.

  “Mary, what’s the story?” Holman asked as she neared.

  “Morning, Admiral,” she said. A senior chief petty officer walked up beside her. Holman gave the man a short nod and returned his attention to his intelligence officer.

  “Chief Razi will be coming out of surgery shortly, Admiral. Basically he’s okay, but he has some infections— especially a deep one on his chest. They’re in the middle of cleaning out the infection and packing the wounds to kill any reoccurrence.” She nodded to the senior chief. “This is Senior Chief Conar. He’s from VQ-2 and head of the squadron’s ground detachment. He was also the flight engineer on Ranger 20, the aircraft the missile damaged. Same one the chief and the others bailed out of.”

  “Senior Chief,” Holman nodded. “What do you know?”

  “Not much more than Captain Davidson, sir. I have been in contact with Captain Greensburg.”

  “And the squadron is launching a bird to fly down today to pick up Chief Razi and fly him back to Rota. His wife and children have been notified. Needless to say, Admiral, there’s a lot of happy people there.”

  “Will he be able to fly this soon after surgery?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure, Admiral. The doctor said he’d know for sure later, but he didn’t see any reason that surgery would stop the chief from leaving.”

  “So, what happened? How did he get here and where’s he been?”

  “Our chief has had one of those Navy adventures we keep advertising about, Admiral. He bailed out and fought his way to the sailors, just as Petty Officers Rockdale and MacGammon said. He rescued them from being taken prisoner by either the terrorists or the ANA, and then he disappeared into the jungle pursuing their captors.”

  Noise from the front of the hospital drew their attention. Walking through the entrance was Thomaston. To his left was a person Holman had never seen — young, dark-skinned. The gait and haircut made Holman believe that the man was military.

  “Dick,” Thomaston said, reaching forward and shaking his hand. “I see you’ve heard about the rescue of your chief petty officer.” Thomaston turned to the man beside him and then nodded at Holman. “This is Stephen Darin. Until a few days ago, he was a general in the African National Army. He was also our inside-man into the workings of this growing national movement. Stephen has been a great asset to Liberia and to the United States.”

  Holman shook his hand.

  “He brought your chief back.”

  “Our thanks. Don’t have to guess that bringing him back means you can never go back.”

  “Not quite,” Thomaston answered. “He may go back. Darin has the loyalty and trust of the other generals inside the African National Army, and it was him they sent out with the chief. Seems our secrets aren’t as secret as we thought. The Nigerian intelligence also has someone even closer to the new head of the ANA, someone named Mumar Kabir, who has assumed General Ojo’s role as the head of this rabble of an army.”

  “So, is it true? Ojo is dead? Killed by his own people?” Davidson asked.

  “Yes,” Darin replied, his eyes darting to the left as he broke eye contact with Holman. “Ojo was a malevolent leader, and with the demise of Abu Alhaul, the ANA believed it was time to switch from a pure military role to one that combined politics. Ojo wasn’t the person to lead.”

  “So they killed him,” Davidson said.

&nbs
p; “No,” Darin replied, shaking his head. A smile spread across his face, white teeth brightening across the man’s dark complexion. He looked at Thomaston.

  “Go ahead, Stephen, tell them. The chief will anyway.”

  “Your American Chief Razi killed him with his own hands.” Darin stretched his hands out and made as if he was choking someone. “He grabbed Ojo around the neck and strangled him until he died.” He dropped his hands. “Everyone was very happy over what the American did, and we buried Ojo near where we killed Abu Alhaul. Then, our forces completed the destruction of the remainder of Abu Alhaul’s terrorists. America should be pleased.”

  “And no one tried to kill the chief?”

  “No, Admiral, but one of our generals — General Kabaka, in protest, took his own life.”

  That sounded strange, Holman thought. It was also out of character. He looked at Mary Davidson. In her expression, he recognized a similar concern. It didn’t sound quite right, but until he got more information, he would accept what Darin told them.

  “And America will be pleased, Mr. Darin. The ANA has killed someone I would have enjoyed having the pleasure of removing from this earth; Abu Alhaul,” Thomaston added. “Abu Alhaul and his followers are no more, and we can thank the African National Army—”

  “African National Alliance, General,” Darin corrected.

  “Oh, yes. With the death of Ojo and this politician Mumar Kabir in charge, it seems that the African National Army changed its name to Alliance,” Thomaston explained to Holman.

  “We buried Abu Alhaul along with his followers. Then we swept the spot so no one would ever find it. They will fade from memory, which is what Mumar Kabir wants.”

  “We’ll need a team in there to confirm it,” Davidson offered.

  Thomaston shook his head. “No. We — Liberia — think it is best to let Abu Alhaul just disappear. Neither make him a martyr nor make him alive. Let him just fade from memory.”

  “But we need to confirm that he is dead.”

  “Mary,” Holman said. “We’ll leave that decision to people higher up than us.” He turned to Thomaston. “Thanks, Mr. President. We’ll pass the information along and if others want to pursue it, we’ll let them discuss it with you.”

  The doors leading to the operating rooms opened and a gurney emerged.

  “That’s him,” Pits Conar said aloud. “That’s Chief Razi. He’s lost weight.”

  “Have you talked with him?” Holman asked.

  “No, sir. I got here only a few minutes before you did.”

  The sound of a vehicle crashing outside the hospital interrupted their conversation. Liberian English erupted outside. Holman didn’t speak the dialect, but he’d been in Liberia often enough throughout his three years as Commander, Amphibious Group Two, that he understood the gist, and it wasn’t something he could repeat.

  The gurney reached the group, who parted to allow it to pass. Chief Razi’s eyes were shut. His slow breathing moved the sheet up and down. Behind the gurney came two doctors, still in scrubs, removing their gloves and green caps. One was tall and thin, while the other was shorter and much heavier. Both were Africans.

  “How is he, Doctor?” Holman asked.

  “He’s fine. We didn’t put him under. We used a local on him, and he went off to sleep while we were taking out the stitches someone used on him. And he snored while we turned back the skin and wiped the infection away. I am surely impressed with a man who can sleep through what had to be very painful.”

  “We were impressed with the chief, also,” Darin said. He looked at Holman. “The man has done so much in your military. The stories of his…” Darin snapped his fingers as he searched for the right word. “Adventures. I can only say that the man has had so many great adventures. My young warriors were enthralled night after night listening to him. We would have kept him longer, but a few days ago we recognized the red creeping along the edges of his wound and knew he needed proper medical attention, otherwise he would have died.”

  “He should be okay now,” the doctor said. “He’s going to have a quite a scar to add to his adventures.”

  “‘Adventures’ is a little strong,” Pits Conar said testily. “Chief Razi is known—” his voice trailed off when he saw everyone looking at him. He shrugged. “I just know Razi.” He turned and sauntered over to a nearby water fountain, leaving the others to their talk.

  An African wearing an off-white suit entered, carrying a plastic bag. He walked over to Thomaston, whispered something to the retired lieutenant general, and handed him the bag before turning and leaving.

  Thomaston looked into the bag, smiled, and handed it to Holman. “Dick, I appreciate the cigars, but I’m afraid my cigar days are over.”

  “Cigars?” Holman asked. What in the hell is Thomaston talking about? he thought as he took the bag. He opened and peered inside. It was a box of cigars — the kind Holman smoked. He looked up at Thomaston. “Where did you get these?”

  Thomaston shrugged. “One of your officers dropped them off. Told my officer who took them that they were compliments of you. I was distinctly honored knowing how much you enjoyed them, how hard they are to find, and how well you protect them. But I could never enjoy them as much as you, and they’re way too expensive for my taste.”

  Holman looked at Upmann. “My cryptologic officer,” he said.

  “Admiral, we don’t know that.”

  “Leo, I have never allowed facts and common sense to cloud my judgment, and I don’t intend to now.” He turned his attention back to Thomaston. “Thanks, Mr. President. I will tell my protocol officer that the idea was appreciated, but the gift was returned.”

  “Now, if you have some Napa Valley wine, I doubt you’ll get that returned.”

  “If I had a bottle of Napa Valley, General, I know where I would put it right now.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Holman walked into of Chief Razi’s room. Over another hour later, he walked out, turning to Upmann. “Did you believe all of that?”

  Upmann shook his head slowly. “I don’t know of any reason why we shouldn’t, but if half of it is accurate, the chief is a mix of John Wayne and Tarzan.”

  “Or Walter Mitty. Reminds me of that chief — yeoman, I think — who convinced everyone that he was a security expert and got his ass shot off during the Albanian riots.”

  “Along with the group of VIPs he was assigned to escort.”

  “It does help to know what you’re talking about and to recognize your own limitations. Few do, you know.”

  The two walked out of the hospital.

  “Admiral!” Captain Davidson shouted from the steps as Holman and Upmann reached the walkway.

  They stopped.

  “Admiral, with your permission, I want to stay and do some snooping.”

  Holman stepped back up the stairs. “Mary, the Boxer is already heading east. This is probably the last helicopter out. If you stay, you’re going to have to make your own way back.”

  “Yeah,” Upmann added. “Instead of sailing back with us, ten days across the Atlantic, most likely you’re going to have to take a ten-hour flight and meet us.”

  She smiled. “Damn, Leo. The sacrifices I make sometimes. Admiral, not everything this Darin told us, and what my human intelligence network tells me, adds up. This General Ojo didn’t have a negative reputation with the populace. He didn’t have a negative reputation with the intelligence community. And, he was believed to be someone we could talk to and reason with. This General Kabaka, on the other hand, was a sadist known for torturing his victims, skinning them alive. Chief Razi tells me the slash along his chest was done by someone who told him he was going to take his skin and make a belt out of it. That resonates better with Kabaka than Ojo.” She shook her head. “There are some loose ends to tie up, and the most important ones are: Who did Chief Razi kill, and is Abu Alhaul really dead?”

  Upmann and Holman exchanged glances.

  “Admiral,” Davidson continued,
her voice firm. “Darin is either lying or Chief Razi is confused. Chief Razi doesn’t strike me as someone who is confused. I think he may have an inclination to exaggerate his role in all of this, but I don’t think he’s lying or confused. He told me he didn’t know the name of the person he killed, but apparently, one group of armed men held guns on the original group that captured him while he choked to death the man who cut him.”

  “Never heard of this Kabaka — that how you say his name?”

  Davidson nodded.

  “—until today.”

  “Well, I have, sir. He was one of Ojo’s generals, he was known for his cruelty. The people feared him. Tales say he wore belts made from the skins of his victims. Razi wouldn’t know this, but he said the man who cut him bragged about having a white belt. This sounds like Kabaka, not Ojo.”

  “Then why would Darin lie?” Holman asked.

  Davidson shrugged. “I don’t know yet, sir, but if he is lying, then Thomaston’s spy is a turncoat. And the other question is why would they want everyone to think Ojo is dead?”

  “He’s Liberian,” Upmann protested.

  “What does that mean?”

  Davidson answered, “He’s native Liberian and native Liberians have an historic hatred for Americo-Liberians, and it would be easy to see that hatred carry over to the American expatriates who took advantage of the Liberian offer of citizenship and moved here. Such a movement as the ANA would appeal to the nationalism of such a person who may feel he and his ancestors are being further denied their rightful place within Liberia.”

  “And Ojo?” Holman asked.

  “It could be that they believe this new person — Mumar Kabir — may be more acceptable to the larger picture,” She paused for a second. “to the larger world audience, maybe. Instead of a general leading them, maybe Ojo has changed his name to become more acceptable.”

  “I would think that would be hard to hide.”

  Davidson smiled. “It may not be too hard, sir. We have no photographs of this Ojo—”

  “We have photographs of Kabaka?”

  “No, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “We do have photographs of a General Ezeji, who we know is with Nigerian intelligence. But our Nigerian counterparts believe that the man may have turned on them. Trust no one and you won’t be disappointed seems to be their mantra.”