Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  He watched quietly along with his lieutenants while Senghor grabbed others nearby and quickly disappeared through the jungle curtain, heading west, following the Americans. Kabaka turned left, leading his tribesmen, and headed north with the rest of the army. In time, this army would be his. Armies are people. Times and events change both. When the time was right, the event would happen. He mumbled quietly as he worshipped his ancestors and asked them for their guidance in this dance for leadership. In the back of his mind, he saw the American heads mounted on stakes, facing each other, and forming a macabre path to a giant chair upon which he would sit to greet petitioners. For what is power, if you are unable to use it? What would be the use of him possessing this power if he couldn’t wield it for his own good? The sweetest virgins. The best cattle. Golden rings and crowns.

  Near the northern edge of the clearing, he stopped, putting his hand out on the shoulder of the largest of his lieutenants, the Ghanaian, Yesuto. Yesuto crouched. You never bent down near Kabaka because to bend down was an insult.

  “Yesuto, you will remain here. This is where the Americans were dropped off. This is where they will return if Senghor is unsuccessful.”

  “Yes, my master,” Yesuto replied, his thick, bass voice easily heard by the other lieutenants.

  “You know what you are to do, if the Americans return?”

  “Yes, my master. I will kill them and bring to you their heads and their skins.”

  “Your ancestors smile upon you, Yesuto.”

  Kabaka turned and, with a tight smile hidden by the night, disappeared into the thick jungle.

  Yesuto stopped four soldiers at the end of the column. Kabaka hadn’t told him to keep the four, but moving through the night jungles of Cote d’Ivoire was better done when someone was with you. Otherwise, the devils of the night and the trees and even the ancestors of those who you have killed could come; one or all together. Wide-eyed, the huge Ghanaian searched the jungle night as they eased into the treeline to cover their presence.

  CHAPTER 10

  UPRIGHT, TUCKER SLID DOWN THE SLIGHT INCLINE, balancing with his left foot, as he worked his way quickly to the bottom where the others waited.

  “See anything?” Master Chief Collins asked quietly.

  “We’re here,” Tucker answered.

  Ricard hoisted his canteen, the liquid sound of the swallowed gobs of water caught Tucker’s attention.

  “Whoa, Ricard,” Tucker said. “Go slow with that. We won’t have any more until we get back to the helo.”

  Ricard lowered the canteen and screwed the top back on. “Yes, sir, I know,” Ricard gasped. “But, it shouldn’t be as hard going back as coming in, sir. Fighting the brush this last mile was exhausting.”

  “Made me thirsty, too,” Brute added.

  Tucker balanced his Carbine between his legs, pushed his hat back on his head, and ran the back of his sleeve across his forehead, careful not to knock into the night vision device. He thought, I hope you’re right about working our way back. Going back, most likely, they’re going to know someone is out here. Rivulets of sweat ran down his body, soaking his cammies. His socks needed replacing. Tucker had an extra pair in his pack, but for the time being he’d suffer the moisture.

  Ricard was doing the right thing, just the wrong way. He was right to replace the water he’s losing, but he needed to do it gradually, so the excess went through the pores and not out through the pecker. Tucker lifted his Carbine and, holding it by the stock, squatted with the three.

  “So what’d you see, sir?” Collins asked.

  “Up there about a hundred yards is the perimeter fence. It’s chain link with razor wire on top. Should be able to cut it. I didn’t see any motion sensors or any indication of it being wired,” he said, referring to possible bolts of electricity surging through the fence. “The aircraft is about three hundred yards on the other side, parked on a concrete apron. We’re going to shift further north, using the fence for guidance, so we can reduce the distance we have to go once we’re inside the fence.”

  Collins stood. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Ah, Master Chief, can’t we take a break?”

  “Ricard, you had a twelve-day break onboard ship. That’s more than any self-respecting Seabee should have.” Collins glanced at his watch. “Besides, if we don’t get this over with, we may miss our ride to the ship and find ourselves eating insects instead of eggs for breakfast.”

  Tucker stood. He reached out and pushed Brute’s night vision device up, away from the right eye. “The rest of you do the same. The French have enough security lights around the aircraft to light our way. We should be okay. There’s a generator at the front of the aircraft. The noise from it will mask any we make, but that doesn’t mean you can quit being quiet. Nor does it mean the noise is going to make us invisible. Stay down and keep alert. I didn’t see any patrols, but again, that doesn’t mean someone isn’t on the other side watching.”

  “What kind of generator?” Collins asked.

  Tucker shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a generator.” He held an arm out to his side and then over his head. “About this big, I guess. It’s on wheels and its towing bar is lying on the tarmac, unconnected. It’s powering the security lights around the aircraft by the looks of it.”

  “Yes, sir, it probably is, but do you know what type it is?”

  Tucker shook his head. Only a Seabee would care what type of generator it is. I hope they don’t get professionally curious on how the tarmac and airfield are built.

  “Follow me, keep low, and keep quiet.” With that instruction, Tucker turned and, leaning forward, scrambled up the incline, his left hand touching the ground for balance.

  “You heard the man. Let’s go. Ricard, you lead the way because you da man the commander needs.” Collins reached over and pushed Brute. “Go ahead. Your turn now.”

  At the top, Tucker threw himself prone, raising his head cautiously so he could see over the rise. Never expect the landscape to be the same when you return, regardless of how short a period you were gone. This was landscape he and Ricard would have to cross. He worked his eyes from the nose of the aircraft, which was pointed toward the fence, past the two engines, along the fuselage, and then over the tail assembly.

  The other three reached the rise and spread out alongside Tucker, seeing for the first time the French airfield built in the middle of the Ivory Coast jungle.

  Left of their position was the Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft. The generator was about twenty feet from the nose, with heavy electrical cables running from it along the ground to huge metal tripods with bright lamps mounted on top, shining directly on the aircraft. Tucker thought, They wouldn’t do that unless they were watching from somewhere.

  Tucker finished his more detailed examination of the aircraft and the surroundings. “The door must be on the other side,” he whispered to Master Chief Collins.

  “Where’s the guards?” Brute asked. “I would think they’d have someone guarding it.”

  “Maybe they feel safe way out here in the middle of nowhere or they have a roving patrol,” Tucker replied softly, wondering the same thing as Brute.

  “That’s an older generator they got there,” Master Chief Collins said. He pointed. “Rust is about the only thing holding that generator together. Look around the openings.”

  “Let’s hope it holds up.”

  He imagined them inside the aircraft and the security lights going off. The moment those lights go off, someone would be sent to investigate. On the other hand, if someone is holed up depending on the lights to reveal anyone around the aircraft, then they’d be easily spotted.

  Collins shook his head. “We’ll be okay if we know when they last filled the tank, which we don’t. Those generators weren’t meant to run on their own. This type of generator is built to support nighttime maintenance; that’s why it’s so bright. This type uses too much energy; it doesn’t have the mechanical legs for an all-night run.”

  Tucker t
urned to look at the master chief, who met his stare.

  “Commander, that generator can run for about six hours on a full tank of diesel,” Collins told him. “If it was turned on when night fell about four hours ago, and if it had a full tank, then it has about two hours of fuel left. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you count on it?”

  “Ain’t something most people think of. They just run mobile engines like your lawnmower—until it runs dry. The condition of the generator tells me whoever is in charge of it doesn’t have much pride in its upkeep.”

  Tucker turned his gaze forward. “Master Chief, that’s great to know,” he said seriously.

  “These lights aren’t for guarding the aircraft,” Master Chief Collins continued. “They’re there to make anyone approaching the aircraft think it’s guarded.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right, Master Chief,” Tucker replied. “We shouldn’t waste time here. Let’s try to finish our mission before the lights go out.”

  “If their roving patrol is like ours,” Brute added, “it won’t run on a regular basis. They’ll just show up when they feel they have to.”

  Tucker nodded. He pointed to his left along the chain link fence. “We’ll move along the fence, keeping ourselves low and on this side of the incline in the shadows. No one can hear us, and if we stay on this side of the rise, they shouldn’t see us either.”

  Tucker rose to a crouching position and waited until the others followed suit. “Master Chief, make sure you have those wire cutters ready, cause we’ll need them to snip our way in. Here’s the plan, gents, once we get up there. Master Chief, you’ll cut the fence as near to the ground as possible. Don’t have to cut it away, just enough so you can pull it back to create an opening.” He raised his hand and nearly pointed at Brute before quickly lowering it.

  “Damn fast, Commander,” Ricard said.

  “Brute, you’ll stay back from the fence and provide guard in the event we have to leave in a hurry. Ricard and I will be the only two going through.” He reached out and touched the master chief on the shoulder. “Master Chief, once we’re through, you take position with Brute and wait until we’re heading back. Then, you’ll pull the fence back so we can egress the site. Brute, you’ll provide cover if we have to fight our way out. Everyone understand?”

  The three nodded in unison.

  “Good. Master Chief, you be ready to use those grenades slung around your neck. If, for some reason, we have to vacate before Petty Officer Ricard can get his C4 set, then the backup plan is to go with grenades. That should slow down anyone following long enough for us to put distance between them and us.”

  “I can do that, sir.” Collins slapped the stock of his Carbine lightly.

  “Why don’t we just use grenades instead of sneaking on board and rigging it to blow up?” Ricard asked. “Sure would be safer for all of us.”

  “We could, but with you rigging it with a timed detonation, we’ll have a little more time to put distance between us and the aircraft. With grenades, the attacking force tends to be nearby, and I don’t want us nearby when that aircraft goes. Not to mention that C4 will do a hell of a lot more damage than a few grenades.”

  Ricard shifted on his haunches, a deep sigh escaping. “I wish we could just blow it up and hightail it out of here.”

  “Then we wouldn’t know if the laser weapon is on board. All we would be able to say when we return was that the aircraft is now smoke and ruins.” Tucker grinned. “I would prefer we do it that way, too, but our mission is to find the laser technology. At a minimum, if we can’t recover it, we have to prove it was on there when we blew it.”

  “Sir, unless you have a camera to show those Intel weenies, they ain’t gonna believe you,” Brute said.

  “Petty Officer McIntosh, you amaze me,” Tucker said, smiling. He reached into his top right pocket and pulled out a small black-cased camera. “I just happen to have my favorite digital camera, approved for spy work by the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “Is that one of ours?”

  “The DIA?”

  “Yes, sir. Is that one of ours or the British?”

  Tucker shook his head. “No, it’s one of ours, Brute.” Tucker motioned them forward. “Okay, keep low and let’s move.”

  At a crouch, they moved quickly just below the top of the ridge. They were about fifty yards from where Tucker thought they ought to be when the generator coughed. The engine caught, ran a few seconds, and then began winding down as the lights faded simultaneously.

  “Hurry,” Tucker ordered, running the last few yards to where he wanted to stage their entry into the covert French airfield. A half-mile away, a light spilled out of a building as a door opened.

  Tucker slid down the far side of the incline from the fence. The others were close behind, diving down beside him. They all pulled on their night vision devices at Tucker’s prompt.

  “I think I see their guard shack,” he said to the others.

  “And I think they’ll probably head this way to see what happened,” Master Chief Collins offered.

  “Think it ran out of diesel?”

  Collins nodded. “Yep. That was the sound of a fuel-starved engine dying.”

  “Then we stay here, watch, and wait until they leave.” Tucker glanced at his watch. They still had nearly an hour and forty-five minutes to do this mission and make it back to the clearing.

  The door remained open at the guard shack, light spilling out into the night. The sound of a vehicle cranking reached their ears. At night, when background noises disappear or fade in volume, the slightly out-of-the-ordinary sounds ride the winds with little distraction.

  It wasn’t long before the sounds of an approaching vehicle increased in volume. Tucker and his team watched as its headlights lit up the aircraft for a moment before turning slightly to illuminate the generator. The earsplitting squeal of metal on metal, caused by brake shoes long gone, caused Tucker to shut his eyes for moment.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ricard said. “Don’t they take care of their trucks?”

  “Quiet, fool,” the master chief said. “You want them to hear you?”

  “If they can hear anything over the noise they’re making, they got better hearing than any human I know.”

  “Can it,” Tucker said sharply.

  Four soldiers in light-tan combat fatigues of the French Foreign Legion jumped out of the back of the topless four-wheeled military vehicle and ran to the four points of the compass, while the officer and the non-com in the front eased out of their seats. The driver stepped out, but stayed beside the military vehicle, one hand resting on the windshield. Tucker didn’t recognize the type of vehicle, but it resembled a Humvee with its wide body and low profile. The officer had a holstered pistol while the non-com appeared to carry no weapon. The four others had automatic weapons with them, but Tucker couldn’t identify the type. He couldn’t use the night vision device because of the headlights, and the four armed Legionnaires had taken station around the aircraft, hidden by the night.

  The French officer said something to the non-com beside him who ran around the side of the Humvee-like vehicle, slapped the driver on the shoulder, and the two of them hurried to the rear. Tucker watched as the two men off-loaded a couple of fuel containers. Then, walking heavily, the men worked their way to the generator where the non-com unscrewed the fuel cap and stood aside while the driver began filling the tank.

  The driver set the last container down and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The non-com said something in French, lifted the container for a moment before setting it down, and started beating a tattoo on the driver’s chest with his forefinger. Tucker got the impression that the junior soldier hadn’t used all the fuel in the container. Apparently satisfied having executed his military anger, the non-com reached over and pressed a button. The engine turned several times and then suddenly caught. Tucker could hear the generator working, but no lights—the man hit anoth
er switch and the flood lamps around the aircraft blazed to life. Tucker and his team kept low, shielding their eyes from the glare as their night vision turned to shit. They each flipped the devices away from their eyes.

  “You hear that?” Tucker asked. It was a faint sound . . .

  “That’s a telephone ringing,” Ricard said. “Yeah, man. That’s a telephone.”

  The French officer heard it also and pointed toward the open door to the guard shack. He shouted something, waving his arm, punctuating the motion with the words vite, vite, vite. The four soldiers around the aircraft went back to the vehicle, two climbing into the back seat from the front doors and the other two jumping over the sides of the vehicle to take their seats in back. The non-com crawled into the front seat between the driver and officer. A minute later, the vehicle whipped around in a circle, its tires spinning, sending gravel and dirt into a stinging cloud behind it as it sped toward the guard shack a half-mile away.

  “Master Chief, get that fence cut.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until they go back inside?”

  “No. Don’t have time, and when a telephone rings way out in the boonies, strangers like us should be nervous.”

  Collins pushed himself up and over, pulling a large set of wire cutters from a pocket along his right leg. Running at a crouch, the senior enlisted man reached the fence and went down on his knees.

  “Ricard, you ready?” Tucker asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Leave your Carbine here. You concentrate on getting the C4 ready and I’ll carry my Carbine.”

  Ricard lifted the box of C4. “I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.”

  They watched silently as the master chief quietly and quickly snipped wire after wire, connecting one clipped link to the next, hooking them as one up and out of the way. After a couple of minutes, the master chief leaned back on his legs.