Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  Ten minutes later, the Super Stallion lifted off from the steady flight deck of the pier side of the USS Mesa Verde. It rocked side to side for several seconds as if the pilots were testing the flight controls, and then it began to rise. Moments later the black helicopter passed above the lighted flight deck and merged with the moonless African night, the noise of its engines the only indication of its presence. The noise faded as the helicopter turned north as if it intended to parallel the Liberia–Ivory Coast border. Inside, Tucker collected the survival radios, checked to make sure they were off, and pushed them under a nearby seat. Otherwise, they were one last thing to derail the mission.

  ASHORE, IN THE SHADOWS OF A FAR WAREHOUSE, THE African porter laid his load down where it wouldn’t be discovered until later. Walking swiftly, he exited the port through the broken gates shoved aside to allow traffic to enter and leave. Moments later he was behind the wheel of an old taxicab that at first glance looked as if years of rust was all that held it together. The port was terrible for cellular telephones, so he drove ten minutes before turning on a side road that climbed a nearby hillside. At the top, he reversed the car and pointed it downhill. He wanted to ensure when he left that if it didn’t crank—and many times it didn’t—he could coast downhill until sufficient speed jump-started it.

  “Hello,” said the voice on the other end.

  “It is as he said,” the man replied, pacing up and down alongside what had once been a bright-yellow car. “They are sending—”

  “Who is this?”

  The man stopped, pulled the cellular telephone away, and stared for a second at it before putting it back against his ear and mouth. “You know who this is, Charlie. It’s yore brother-in-law. The man who married your sister.”

  “I know it’s you, Charlie, but what are you supposed to say to show me you’re who you are and you’re not being held captive?”

  “Okay. Let me think,” he said. After several seconds, Charlie said, “It’s Harper. That’s the word; Harper.”

  “Okay, now I know it’s you.”

  “You always knew it was me.”

  “What is it you want to pass to Ojo?”

  “Tell him you were right. An American helicopter full of Marines or Special Forces has left the large American warship in the port. The Americans are not only flying reconnaissance missions from Monrovia, but I watched the soldiers jump into the helicopter before it took off.

  “How long ago?”

  “About thirty minutes. It was heading north, and you want to know something?”

  “Charlie, tell me,” the man replied, his voice betraying his irritation.

  “I tell you. The helicopter turned its lights off. The helicopter is flying with no lights. Now, how about that?”

  “How do you know they are coming toward us?”

  For the next few minutes, Charlie told his wife’s brother of overhearing conversations between American sailors who were having cigarettes near the warehouse. From other bits and snatches of conversation, the African pieced together that the helicopter was taking a team of warriors to search for the location of the African National Army and blow up their leader—Fela Azikiwe Ojo. Without him, the future unity of Africa would be endangered. Why America would want to do this, he had no idea, but it was enough that he knew. He didn’t tell his brother-in-law that the sailors never mentioned the African National Army. Fact is they never mentioned anything other than a helicopter was preparing for a night flight.

  Charlie let out a deep breath when he folded the telephone shut following his call. Tonight, he had saved the future of his continent. Tonight, the word would reach the African nationalist leader who was deep inside Ivory Coast. Charlie didn’t know what Ojo would do, but if he were Ojo, he would withdraw deeper into the jungle and turn north away from where the French were and where the Americans were headed.

  His smile broadened as the taxicab cranked on the first try. Today had been his finest day. Even if he wasn’t sure about the mission of the helicopter, his service wouldn’t be forgotten, and, if he were correct, there would be much glory and honor for his family.

  CHAPTER 8

  FELA AZIKIWE OJO ROSE FROM THE FOLDING CHAIR IN front of his tent. With hands clasped behind his back, the commander of the African National Army walked around the fire, thinking, Why would the Americans come after me? Sure, he knew of the four-engine propeller reconnaissance aircraft flying out of Monrovia, and he knew they were trying to find him and his forces. But he had purposely avoided acts of violence against the Americans— and the French.

  Ojo recalled how the Liberian president, who used to bean American general, routed Abu Alhaul’s forces at Kingsville two years ago. Ojo had been there. He had led the Africans under Abu Alhaul—father of terror—and used the Arab name Mumar Kabir. How foolish I was! To believe the mad terrorist would do anything but further enslave my people by wrapping the bonds of a warped religion around them! The Western religions of Christianity and Judaism weren’t much better, but generally they didn’t kill you when you refused to convert.

  Ojo kicked an edge of a piece of firewood half out of the fire, sending a shower of sparks flying into the air. The only Americans who could identify him as a former member of Abu Alhaul’s Jihadists were the ones who nearly killed him above the arsenal at Kingsville. He had thrown himself into the bushes just in time—he smiled as he recalled the event. The hill hidden by the bushes into which he dove was a great surprise, and the rolling, tumbling trip down it had been painful. He had lost consciousness before he reached the bottom. When he woke up later, the smell of battle filled the air with the sound of gunfire silenced. He discovered his body covered by insect bites, his arms and legs bruised, and a great pain in the left side of his body with every breath. He realized later when he saw the dead rotting on the battleground how lucky he had been. The shooting of his two comrades, if you could call them that, and his own unfortunate fall down the hillside, had given Mumar Kabir the disappearance needed to return as Fela Azikiwe Ojo.

  “General, you should move before they arrive,” Niewu said. Niewu squatted at the edge of the flickering circle of light created by the large fire. Across the thin man’s weathered legs rested the “stick,” worn smooth from constant stroking. Ojo nodded in acknowledgment to the elder’s advice and thought, Niewu is only the general of the stick, and yet he wields more power than my other generals.

  Ojo’s lower lip pushed against his upper. “Why do they come, brother Niewu?” Ojo asked, turning his head to the front as he continued circling the fire in his slow pace. “We have particularly avoided antagonizing the Americans.”

  The shadows hid the shrug of Niewu’s shoulders. “It is enough to know they come. They send a team of four trained killers. The spy only identified a group of Americans lifting from the warship in the harbor, but others identified four men outfitted with automatic weapons. This is an American Navy warship, therefore those known as SEALs, who become one with the night, are coming this way, my General.”

  On the other side of the fire the voice of Feli Ezeji, his Nigerian General, added, “The American reconnaissance aircraft flew today along the north and east borders of Liberia, my General. Our telephone talkers tracked their flight path.”

  Ojo tried to make out the head of the large Nigerian, but only the man’s huge legs—black as the African darkness— projected into the circle of light. Ezeji’s body faded into the shadows of the moonless night and blended with the tree where he rested.

  “It is hard to tell if they detect us or not,” General Ezeji continued, “but the Americans must know our general area of operations or else they would be flying missions . . .” A hand appeared in the circle of light and waved clockwise several times. “ . . . Constantly.”

  Ojo watched the thick, pudgy fingers on the hand as it moved in a circle. Anyone who thinks those hands of Ezeji are weak have never seen him hold a man aloft with one hand and squeeze the neck until the spine popped.

  “Everywhere,
searching for us,” Ezeji continued. The hand disappeared back into the shadows. “No, they have located us and these daily missions have been probing our forces with their super technology. Now, they are ready and have dispatched assassins for you.”

  Ojo stopped pacing and walked to a small folding card table set up outside his tent. A card table that doubled as his place for explaining the army’s operations and for eating the small amount of food he allowed himself every day. He would not become big and corpulent like those who through guile and deceit become leaders in Africa. Ojo failed to see a conflict between this belief and the size of Ezeji. Beneath his fervent desire to rid Africa of foreign influence lay this continuous, but slight, tug of hunger to always remind him of what his people suffered—for all of Africa were his people.

  “Come here, everyone,” he said, tapping his finger on a chart of the area. Ojo thought, What if the Americans are after me? Maybe I should listen to those who would have us establish contact with them?

  The wizened Niewu braced the stick—his staff—on the ground and used it to steady himself as he rose. On thin legs and a back bowed from years of trying to pull a living from a small patch of ground, the oldest of Ojo’s inner circle shuffled forward to where Ojo stood.

  To the right of Ojo’s chair sat Darin, one leg spread out in front and the other leg draped over the chair arm. Darin was the youngest of the three generals who had led Ojo’s army. Ojo watched from the corner of his eye as Darin unwound as only young men can do and quickly stood. Ojo thought, It’s true what the western press says about our wars in Africa. We are the continent of child warriors. He shrugged his shoulder and turned his attention back to the chart draped on top of the folding table. But what could he do? When you have no one to help in your wars, then you use whatever resources available; and, in Africa, children were plentiful—more plentiful than healthy adults of fighting age. Ojo’s finger traced their route from the north, down along the border area of Liberia and Ivory Coast.

  With little reluctance, Ojo used child warriors—some as young as twelve—but in deference to his need for the positive Western press he would need in the coming years, he mandated the child warriors must all be taller than the justice stick Niewu administered. Ojo enjoyed the belief that he tempered his child warriors’ immaturity with leaders of vision and discipline. Darin was less than twenty-five and the most volatile of his generals. The young man, whose body was crisscrossed with welts and wounds, knew little else than fighting. Darin had been a warrior since kidnapped at five. Ojo’s attempt to discover more about his young general revealed the young man had no idea where he came from or who his parents were. The boy general didn’t know if they were alive or dead, if they searched for him or not, or even if they cared whether he was alive or dead. On the other hand, Darin couldn’t care either, after these years of warring. They were a faded memory of a childhood that ended years ago.

  Light reflected off permanent beads of sweat that blanketed the naked arms, legs, and head of General Darin. Even Darin himself didn’t know if Darin was his first name or last or even from which bit of West Africa—if he was from West Africa—the general came.

  The grunting of General Fela Ezeji drew Ojo’s attention as the huge Nigerian warrior placed two huge hands on the ground and pushed himself up, his large stomach rolling to the right. I told Ezeji to use the folding chairs, but the man refused. It’s because of pride. He knows he is very fat— corpulent—and he worries of losing face if he sits upon the folding chair and it collapses beneath him.

  Ojo turned back to the chart, his eyes searching for his army’s next move while his mind thought about the Nigerian general. Ezeji was the only one with professional military experience. He had once been a member of the Nigerian military. Nigeria was the true regional power for upper West Africa, and like Liberia with its Americans, Ojo avoided the country. Nigeria would not hesitate to commit its army to wiping him from the face of Africa. The time for that conflict may never come, but if it should, it would be years into the future.

  It was important not to engage those stronger than his own army, which were many in West Africa. Someday, he thought, but not now. Nigeria was a concern for the future.

  At first, his trust for Ezeji had been tempered by the possibility that the man had been planted by the Nigerian intelligence service. Ezeji had arrived at their encampment in Guinea, bringing with him nearly fifty Nigerians. Ojo’s skepticism and suspicions were of such depth that in the next few battles he put the Nigerians at the front and watched most of them die. Even with this willingness to die for a vision of a prosperous Africa led and controlled by Africans, it had taken a long time for Ojo to resolve his suspicion.

  Ojo eventually reached the conclusion that if Ezeji were a Nigerian intelligence agent, he was a poor one, for the man failed to take numerous opportunities to betray Ojo and the African National Army; opportunities Ojo deliberately provided.

  Ezeji stood, his heavy legs spread to hold the weight, the thick thighs touching through the khaki short-pants. The Nigerian saw Ojo looking at him and raised his right hand in a friendly salute.

  Ezeji had killed a man whom Ojo had sent to ferret out the Nigerian’s true allegiance. Ezeji had decapitated the deceiver and jammed the man’s head so hard onto a stake that the sharpened end protruded several inches through the top of the skull. Then he had put the stake with its trophy in the center of the encampment. Ezeji had stood in front of the head, extolling for the growing crowd of African National Army soldiers the crime for those who betray Ojo.

  Ojo was sad over the loss of such a close servant as the man who was killed, but he accepted the young man’s death as necessary in determining the faithfulness of leaders who may be important for the success of the ANA.

  Ojo shook his head as Ezeji approached, and his thoughts turned to the decapitated servant. He had yet to find a servant who could serve him as well as the one Ezeji killed; who knew how to think ahead and plan for whatever Ojo needed. Yes, it was sad to lose him. But in return, he had discovered another loyal servant.

  Ezeji moved on heavy and unsteady legs toward the table. Unsteady from sitting cross-legged on the ground for hours. He’d regain his steadiness, Ojo thought, when the blood reached the sleeping parts of the legs. To comment on Ezeji’s pain would be insulting. Pride is such a fickle emotion.

  From the far side of the private oasis of Ojo’s tent in the center of the jungle encampment of the army, the third general appeared, dancing one leg to the right and the other to the left as he zipped up his khaki shorts. Making remarks to the Enforcers guarding the perimeter about how lucky they were to be normally endowed and not have to do these strange antics to get their private parts to settle comfortably. The men laughed at General Kabaka’s comments. Even Ojo smiled, thinking, He is most congenial with the troops, as well as being the most dangerous one on my staff.

  Ojo had decided a month ago that he would have to remove—kill—Kabaka, for the man was a threat to Ojo and to the African National Army. Kabaka must die, for he will come after me.

  Ojo recalled well when the epiphany of Kabaka’s ambition soared through his mind. He had nearly fallen backward off his haunches, with Ezeji reaching out, placing his hand on Ojo’s back, and steadying him. It is never one thing that causes an epiphany. Epiphanies spring forth when varied pieces of events collide suddenly within one’s thoughts—coming together like a great puzzle. For Ojo’s realization of the danger Kabaka represented had been a culmination of everything the man did, said, and left unsaid. Trust only requires suspicion, not facts, to destroy. The way Kabaka pandered to Ojo and the others when he wanted something; the way he ingratiated himself with soldiers not of his tribe; and the way he preferred the word “I” to “we.” Then, there were the tantrums when Kabaka’s will was thwarted, which wasn’t often because no one wanted to confront the mercurial general.

  Ojo’s dreams were very important, for they revealed the future. In a dream that night of the epiphany, he saw Kab
aka holding a machete to his throat as he lay in bed, unable to move his arms and hands to defend himself. In the dream, he could only watch helplessly as Kabaka laughed and began to saw through his throat with slow back-and-forth movements. He woke, soaked in sweat, with his own hands patting his neck to make sure his head was still attached to his body. The dream was confirmation for Ojo that Kabaka was not to be trusted, would one day oppose him, and when that day came, Kabaka would try to kill him. For now, being a leader within the army salved Kabaka’s arrogance and pride. That was the problem with a rebel army. Too many join rebel movements—and terrorist groups—for the power they can wield. Self-important people whose appreciation of their own competence was only outweighed by the truth. And this power was never freely given up and only lost through violence.

  Kabaka drew more laughter as he weaved his way through the chairs, sleeping men, and Enforcers toward the table where Ojo waited patiently. Ojo watched silently as the boisterous Kabaka—tall, lithe, and richly black— approached. He thought, Kabaka is the very image of the native African black man. You could put his photograph on the cover of National Geographic with no words and everyone would know immediately he was African.

  The firelight gleamed off Kabaka’s good eye as he smiled at Ojo. The left eye clouded long before Ojo accepted the warrior’s offer to fight. Kabaka’s humor hid his cruelty from those who did not know him. The African was known to laugh uproariously while telling hapless captives humorous stories as he slowly drew a razor down their bodies, stripping their skin one inch at a time from their frames. The screams of the captives only excited Kabaka to even greater extremes. Ojo looked at the notorious woven black belt wound through the loops to hold up his shorts. Rumor reached him that Kabaka had taken two young boys’ skins to weave the belt. Yes, I’ll have to kill the man soon, before Kabaka decides he needs a bigger belt. Until then, Ojo may not approve of torture, but in the path of liberation, fear was as much a weapon as a warning.