Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  The noise of their passage seemed louder to him than what a SEAL team would have made. The vines crisscrossing the trail grew in size the deeper they penetrated the heavy jungle. Tucker focused on each step, continuously searching the close-in surroundings. Here, in the thick of vegetation, any sign of an ambush or other humans would be seen in double-digit meters instead of a couple of hundred meters the open clearing had afforded. Thick bushes protruded over the trail like a low hanging canopy, forcing them to push limbs aside as they walked, and adding to the noise their passage was making.

  Every calculated minute, Tucker glanced at the GPS, noting the distance traveled and distance to target. Seconds after glancing at the readout, Tucker would update his estimate of their rate of travel. His initial calculation showed they had slightly over an hour until they reached the target. If their progress remained on track, they’d have plenty of time to return to the clearing for their lift out of here.

  Tucker estimated that the jungle limited his night vision effectiveness to about twenty meters. Not much distance for any kind of warning or any time for evasion. His finger slid along the Carbine, touching the safety lightly. Still on.

  So many unknowns. So much to do. So much riding on their success—at least that’s what they say. How could one weapon change the superpower status of America? He didn’t know, but his wasn’t to know; his was to do or die. With technology moving so fast, status in the world was being determined not so much by a country’s size and strength, but by the ever-increasing discovery by individual minds.

  Someone tripped. “Damn.” Then a couple of seconds later, Tucker heard Ricard say, “Sorry.”

  “Do or die,” he thought. Looks as if “die” is the answer, if there’s anyone worth a damn ahead of us.

  ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THE FOUR ENTERED THE jungle edge of the landing zone, a lone African pushed his way through the jungle bush on the east side and cautiously entered the clearing. The man said something softly and then started along the same animal trail Tucker and the others used to leave the area on the other side. The man was quickly followed into the clearing by others growing in number. All along the edges of the clearing—some using other trails, others forging their own—men carrying weapons emerged from the jungle to tramp the grasses down as they moved into and started across the clearing.

  One moment Ojo was surrounded by the wild of the Cote D’Ivoire jungle and the next he had stepped from it and into a huge clearing, lit only by the faint starlight overhead. Where are the Americans? he asked himself. Have they given up trying to find me and returned to their ship in Harper? The helicopter had flown over them and then disappeared farther to the north when it flew back. He didn’t want a confrontation with the Americans. Since the terrorist attack on and collapse of the Twin Towers in September 2001, the world had learned quickly that Americans were unafraid to use their military might to remove threats to what they perceived to be their national security. He had intentionally avoided doing anything to draw their attention. Didn’t he personally order his men to escort those stupid American missionaries to Liberia where he released them unharmed? Missionaries, regardless of their religion, were the bane of Africa. Western missionaries weren’t so bad, it was just that they were over here. He countered this thought with the knowledge that they, at least, brought food and medicine with them. The mullahs brought with them enslavement and the promise for their children to die as martyrs.

  Ojo had made sure the four American women missionaries understood the African National Army had nothing but the greatest respect for their country. When they departed his company, he had even allowed them to hold his hands as they prayed, knowing Americans would forgive most anything, if they believed someone to be a Christian. Dealing with American influence was better done in the court of world opinion than at the wrong end of the barrel of a gun.

  Alongside the faint trail where he walked, his Enforcers flanked him, searching for any threat to the head of the African National Army. No, now was not the time to confront the Americans, even if they were sending assassins to kill him. The time would come for that.

  The survival of his growing army was more important than his life or his pride. Ojo had few illusions that his army would survive if he tried to engage the Americans . . . or even the French. It was not the French that scared him as much as it was their Foreign Legion, and most of the French warriors in Ivory Coast belonged to the dreaded Foreign Legion. His General Kabaka and the French Foreign Legion had much in common with their lack of compassion against an enemy.

  The noise of the Enforcers drew his attention a few times as the rough terrain and thick grass kept causing them to trip and fall. They’d be better guards if they remained upright.

  All along the eastern edge of the grassy clearing his African National Army continued to emerge, growing in size, the soldiers looking both ways before following the person in front who was tramping down the way, forging new manmade trails through the grasses. Like a line of black snakes, the army wormed its way into the clearing.

  They couldn’t stay here long. If the helicopter returned, it would have no problem seeing them even in the starlight. It could even be overhead now, for the Americans had those black helicopters that flew with no noise. He had seen them in an American movie. Even he knew the American military was notorious for its command of the night, with those small “thingies” they wore over their eyes so it turned the night into day. Ojo patted his left side, a sigh of relief escaping when his hands touched the two grenades that hung from his vest. If they should come under attack by the Americans, Ojo knew to throw a grenade or shoot toward wherever the Americans might be, because the blasts of light would destroy their vision, blind them. Blind them long enough for him to escape.

  Ahead, several soldiers fell to the side of the trail. Ojo nearly dove for cover, believing the worst as to why they would be diving to the ground. Then, he saw they weren’t taking cover. They were being pushed aside by someone working his way against the flow of soldiers.

  The tall silhouette with shoulders level with most of the heads of the soldiers being pushed to the side identified the approaching man as General Kabaka. Unconsciously, Ojo touched the pistol strapped to his belt on his right side and flipped open the flap. His finger flipped off the safety. He reminded himself, if he had to pull it, not to put his finger on the trigger until the pistol cleared the holster unless he wanted to risk accidentally shooting himself. Shooting oneself is not a good leadership trait.

  Ojo stopped and waited, watching warily as Kabaka approached. The rifle Kabaka carried remained strapped across the mercurial general’s back. That was fine, but Ojo knew the man carried grenades like every officer in his army. He watched the hands, ready to draw his pistol if they moved toward the grenades hanging from the leather webbing crisscrossing Kabaka’s chest.

  “General Ojo,” Kabaka said when he was a couple of meters away. “The helicopter has been here. Maybe an hour ago.” The man pointed toward the center of the clearing. “The grasses over there have been flattened. Flattened as if the American helicopter hovered over that spot for a few moments.” He dropped the arm, lifted the other one, and pointed ahead, along the trail. “At least three, possibly more, were dropped off. They are heading west along this very trail upon which you stand.”

  Ojo inhaled a deep breath and let it out. So, it was true. The Americans were here and somewhere ahead they waited for him. How could they know with such accuracy his position? He turned his head as someone approached from behind. There was no mistaking the huge profile of his Nigerian—General Ezeji. He looked back at Kabaka. “A spy. A spy is the only way the Americans could have been so accurate.”

  Ojo had deliberately avoided using any communications device to avoid detection by the Americans. He had limited communications to incoming only or to landline telephones, though he usually preferred to use couriers. Couriers were slower, but more reliable.

  “I heard,” Ezeji said as he stopped behind and sli
ghtly to the left of Ojo, “with the Americans, you never know if it is their technology or their CIA who is working the winds.”

  “What do you recommend?” Ojo asked, his head turning from Kabaka to Ezeji.

  “We should hurry forward, find them, kill them, and leave them so when they are found”—Kabaka said, his voice tight with hatred—“they will know to leave the African National Army alone.” He raised a clenched fist.

  “Oh, yes,” Ezeji retorted. “Tell that to Saddam Hussein or the Taliban! Or to the Indonesians who now control only a few small islands. They, too, said, ‘Let’s kill some Americans and they will leave us alone.’ ”

  Ojo could not see all of Kabaka’s face in the dark, but he could tell that anger and hatred twisted it. Ezeji and Kabaka had been sparring constantly the past few weeks. Kabaka yelled for more action, more killings—or “ examples” as he called them—while Ezeji, the Nigerian professional soldier, argued for consolidating gains and consistent planning—building the support of the people on whom they depended for food, clothing, and sustenance. Ezeji had killed three of Kabaka’s tribesmen a month earlier for killing an innocent farmer and raping his wife and daughters. The incident had made Ezeji an enemy of this unpredictable killer.

  “No, we will not hunt the Americans to kill them,” Ojo said. “I want to turn the army north. Not only are the Americans ahead, but the French are, also.” At the mention of the French, an idea welled up inside. A way out of being searched for by the Americans. A way to divert their attention.

  “We will turn north. General Ezeji, have someone alert the French to the Americans’ presence.”

  Ezeji pulled out a cellular telephone. “Easy to do, General Ojo.” The corpulent Nigerian punched a redial function on the telephone. Ojo watched Ezeji for a few moments—a few moments too long before he changed his mind.

  “No,” Ojo said, the word trailing off as he heard Ezeji speak to someone on the other end in the Nigerian Fulani dialect.

  Ezeji nodded at Ojo, leading Ojo to believe that he must not have heard his “no” in time. It was too late now.

  Ojo bit his lower lip as he listened to Ezeji pass instructions—instructions Ojo assumed were orders he had given. Two minutes later Ezeji flipped the cellular telephone closed. “Even as we speak, a friend is warning the French duty officer at Yamoussoukro, the capital of Cote d’Ivoire, where he will relay the information to the French at their ‘secret’ airstrip. We should turn north, my General.” He lifted the cellular telephone. “Let’s hope the Americans were not listening; but in the event they were, it will take time for them to translate my words.”

  “But it won’t take long to locate the speaker,” Ojo added.

  “We should kill them,” Kabaka said, stepping closer to the two men. He held up his right fist and shook it. “It will show Africans everywhere how powerful we are. It will increase our prestige among our people and rally them to us. Ezeji is wrong. America is spread too thin to come after every group who attacks them.”

  “No, we will let the French do our work,” Ojo said. Kabaka may have been right, but it wasn’t a decision to make without a lot of thought and discussion. When it came time to face the Americans, he must be sure they had a chance of victory. Victory didn’t necessarily have to be achieved through fighting them.

  “What if the French fail us? What if the Americans escape and are not killed? They will continue their quest for your head!”

  “It doesn’t matter whether the French kill them or not. The fact that the French will be looking for them will keep them distracted from finding us,” Ojo said tensely, thinking, From finding me. For a moment, Ojo was back two years ago at the battle for the Liberian armory at Kingsville—tumbling down that steep bank to escape the Americans who had shot his fellow warriors. The next thing he recalled was waking to the bites of insects at the base of the steep incline, covered in cuts, scratches, and bruises from the fall. The nightmare shaped his fear of the Americans, for if American children warriors could do this to him, his own young Army would never stand a chance.

  “Well, General Ojo?” Kabaka demanded.

  Ojo’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Kabaka, unaware in the dark that the man was unable to weigh Ojo’s expression. His voice firm, he said, “We will turn north, because we don’t want the French or the Americans to find us.” He jerked his thumb at Ezeji. “And, though the Americans may fail to understand what General Ezeji has ordered, they may well have triangulated our location, so remaining here in this clearing should make us nervous. It does me.”

  That time two years ago, while he had been deciding what to do with American civilians, someone had open fire from the bushes, shooting the two Liberian rebels with him. It had only been the luck of Africa that he shifted his stance to the right as the shots were fired, otherwise he would have died that day, left alongside the trail for his body to be eaten. The hill was the last thing he remembered before awakening.

  “I—” Kabaka started, the word a shout.

  “Enough!” Ojo shouted. “You will follow my orders.” He reached forward, his hands nearly to Kabaka’s neck, before he dropped them by his sides. Now was not the time to create more animosity between him and Kabaka. Kabaka did have the loyalty of his tribesmen who made up most of his troops and one fourth of Ojo’s army.

  Kabaka nearly tripped, stepping back from Ojo’s move. He touched his neck briefly, glanced at Ezeji, and back to Ojo. In a quiet voice, he said, “Yes, my General. I will return to my men.”

  Ojo watched as Kabaka walked away, the man’s shoulders slumped, his gait slow as he headed down the trail in the direction from whence he came. He didn’t believe what the man’s body language showed. Kabaka was as good an actor as he was a killer.

  “He is a dangerous man,” Ezeji said softly.

  Ojo opened his mouth to agree, thought against it, and instead said, “Our movement has need of warriors such as General Kabaka, my friend. We all bring unique talents to the table of African nationalism. Would you please pass the word”— he pointed to his left —“to turn north. We will move in that direction for the night. At dawn, we will rest before turning west to return to the border area between Liberia and Cote d’Ivoire. Somewhere out there is Abu Alhaul. If we deliver his head to the Americans, they will believe us to be on their side. Americans are great believers in taking sides.”

  “As they are great believers in those who profess to their God.”

  KABAKA SHOVED HIS WAY THROUGH THE COLUMN OF African soldiers who had slowed their progress forward. Someone at the head of the column had given the order to stop. At the far edge of the clearing, loyal tribesmen of Kabaka waited. They had stopped as Kabaka had ordered before he rushed to meet with Ojo.

  “What did General Ojo say?” a tall, thin African asked as Kabaka pushed into the center of his lieutenants. The khaki short pants worn by the man blossomed around thin, sinewy legs common to a runner. Even in the faint moonlight, exposed kneecaps protruded from the legs like large tree knobs on wrenched, wrinkled limbs.

  Kabaka stared at the speaker for a moment. Then he drew up to full height and laughed. “We are going to kill Americans.”

  “Americans?”

  Kabaka pointed west toward where the animal trail disappeared into the jungle. “Out there—on this very trail where we stand—are Americans.” He dropped his hand. “Senghor, you are the fastest. You are a great hunter. You will go with five of our best warriors. You will find them and you will kill them.” He took several deep breaths, his head down.

  Around him, his lieutenants exchanged glances. They had seen Kabaka’s anger, and when he was this angry, you never knew upon whom or how his anger would fall. But, few lived who felt its brunt. It was better Kabaka’s anger remain on the Americans, if there were Americans. Indeed, why would Americans be in the night jungles of Cote D’Ivoire?

  Bright teeth reflected in the starlight as Senghor smiled, ignoring the signs of anger. “You must need new skins for your belts, my Gene
ral,” he joked.

  The other lieutenants took a small step back, away from Senghor, thinking to themselves how foolish the man was to have spoken while Kabaka was in the throes of his anger. While the blood raced hot through their fellow tribesman’s veins and Kabaka’s brain was filled with the killing lust, even his own son and daughters weren’t safe.

  Kabaka looked up. Senghor felt the heat of a gaze hidden by the night and fueled by his own imagination. He stepped back, nearly falling over the vines growing over the faint trail. New beads of sweat broke across Senghor’s forehead, and, without realizing it, he held his breath.

  The others sidestepped away, leaving Senghor standing alone in the midst of them. Even they understood that Senghor might have overstepped his familiarity with the man known as the torturer of the camp. When Kabaka laughed, Senghor released his breath and laughed with him. The others joined in, even those who had no idea why Kabaka laughed. Not to do so may have brought unwanted attention upon them, so they laughed, trying to out-laugh Kabaka to show how close they were to their kinsman’s ideas.

  “New skins would be nice, Senghor. Along with the skins, bring me their heads. I will have use for American heads.” He glanced back up the trail, toward where he had left Ojo and Ezeji standing, knowing in the dark they were too far away to see. Knowing in the dark they wouldn’t be able to watch him either. He thought, We will see how much you can avoid the Americans when I finish.

  Behind him came a shout, urging everyone to turn north. The march had begun again like a night host of army ants destroying everything in its path, but constantly, always, moving.

  Kabaka turned to Senghor and patted the man twice on the shoulder, falsely believing the shaking was in admiration and gratefulness for the opportunity to serve him. He was truly blessed to have such loyal servants who loved and worshipped him. For what is a man in his own country, if his tribesmen and kin turn their backs upon him. “Go. Bring me their heads and,” he paused, “their skins.”