Without another word she turned and began to jog down the trail again, this time at a considerably faster pace.
“Crap,” Cooper exclaimed as he took off after her. “I knew I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
They had run only about five hundred yards when Jersey suddenly stopped, held up her hand, and she slipped out of sight into the brush next to the trail.
Cooper unslung his SAW and stopped in his tracks, squatting down low so as not to be seen. After a moment, Jersey walked softly back to him, her finger to her lips.
She whispered, her mouth close to his ear, “I smelled food cooking up ahead. After I stopped I could hear voices.”
“What were they saying?”
She gave him a withering look. “I don’t know. I don’t speak a lot of Bantu. How about you?”
He shrugged. “What do you want to do?”
She took her CAR in her arms, and as quietly as she could chambered a round.
“That’s the way we have to go, so let’s join the party and see what’s cookin’.”
Cooper readied his SAW, and side by side they walked around the bend ahead and toward a small campfire in a nearby clearing just off the trail.
There were three natives sitting on their haunches, eating something with their hands from small, homemade bowls. An iron pot filled with what smelled like stew was boiling on the fire.
The men were chattering in a singsong dialect that sounded like Bantu. Their eyes got wide, and they shut up as Jersey and Cooper approached. Jersey began talking to the men in English, but they all shook their heads, indicating they couldn’t understand.
She glanced at Cooper, then began talking in French, of which Cooper couldn’t understand a word.
Evidently at least one of the group spoke the language, the second language after English in most places in Africa. He nodded and began talking rapidly back at her.
Jersey frowned and said another few words. She looked at Cooper and said, “I asked him to speak slowly. It’s been years since I studied a little French in the reservation school.”
After a few more minutes of conversation the men began to visibly relax, as did Jersey. She put her M-16 on safety and slung it back behind her shoulder.
“It’s OK. They’re local farmers, taking a lunch break before going back to tending their crops.”
“What do they say about the presence of hostiles?”
She shook her head. “They said there aren’t any organized soldiers, just roving bands of thieves and cutthroats and gangbanger types. The soldiers all pulled out of this area a couple of weeks ago.”
She walked up to the campfire, said a few more words, then bent over and took a bowl from one of the men and dipped it in the pot, filling it with what looked like a mixture of okra, rice, and chunks of some whitish meat.
“They said dig in. They’ve got plenty,” she called back over her shoulder to Cooper.
“What is it?”
“What difference does it make? We’re burning a lot of calories here, pal, and we need protein. Besides, it’s mainly rice and okra, with some pepper seasoning, tomatoes, things like that.”
Reluctantly, Cooper helped himself to a bowlful. After scooping it out with his fingers as the men were, he ate a handful. “Ummm, not too bad. Kind’a slimy, but okra always tastes like that to me. Pretty spicy too—almost like mandarin Chinese food from back in the states.” He chewed some of the meat. “What is this meat? It tastes like chicken?”
She grinned at him. “Part of it’s tree snake, and the rest is python.”
Cooper almost choked, and he gagged and coughed. “What! You let me eat snake when you know how I hate them?”
She shrugged. “All the more reason to eat them, Coop. After all, that’s what they try to do to you. What better revenge could you have?”
He thought about it for a moment, then began to eat again. “OK, I see your point. But just don’t tell me there are spiders in here. That would be carrying things too far.”
Between mouthfuls Jersey said, “They say we’ve only got about another sixty-five klicks to the Congo river. Other than roving bands of punks and gangsters, we shouldn’t have any problems.”
He looked up over the rim of his bowl. “See if you can get a doggie bag of this stuff to take with us. I think I’m developing a taste for it.”
ELEVEN
After watching Jersey and Cooper fall into the river, and spin around under the impact of dozens of machine gun bullets, Ben was only able to sleep fitfully.
Alternately angry and sad, he vacillated between morose sorrow and murderous rage at the fate of two of his best and oldest friends.
As he tossed and turned in his sleeping bag, he felt it would have been different if they had been killed while defending the SUSA from domestic enemies. Then their deaths would have meant something.
But to be mowed down in the prime of life in some godforsaken country halfway around the world, fighting to protect people who didn’t give a rat’s ass about them or their way of life, was an irony he had trouble dealing with.
He crawled out of his tent shortly before dawn, shaved, and dressed with full war pack, taking extra ammunition and magazines and stuffing them in every available pocket. He went to John Watson’s tent and called softly, “John . . . wake up, John. I need to talk.”
Watson pulled back his tent flap and stared out at Ben with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “What is it, Ben? Are we under attack?”
“No, calm down. I just wanted to tell you I’m gonna take off for a day or two. I plan to travel with the Scouts, to get some firsthand experience with the tribes we’re doing battle with, to see if I can find out why they’ve sided with Bottger.”
Alarm showed on Watson’s face. “You can’t do that, Ben!” he whispered hoarsely. “It takes a special kind of soldier to be a Scout, and besides, you’re too old.”
Ben’s eyes turned cold and harsh, causing the hair on the back of Watson’s neck to stir. “John, I’m still Commander in Chief of the Rebel Army. Don’t presume to tell me what I can and can’t do!” he said, voice ringed with steel.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I didn’t mean it that way, but at least take some of your personal team with you . . . for protection.”
“It’s not me that’s gonna need protection, John. It’s the enemy. You’ll take over command until I return. If you have any questions or doubts about what’s best to do bump John Michaels, or Ike McGowen if you can’t get hold of John. They’ve both got sound military minds, and will give you good advice.”
“When will you be back?”
“When I’ve killed enough of the bastards to get Jersey and Coop out of my mind.”
He gave a half-salute, “See ya’ later, partner.”
Seconds later he disappeared in the darkness, headed south into the jungle.
In less than an hour, with dawn minutes away, he passed two Scout sentries, moving so silently in the dense undergrowth they weren’t aware of his presence until he walked into the Scout camp.
Each Scout unit, depending on its specific operational orders, consisted often men, usually commanded by a sergeant.
This unit was under the leadership of Sergeant Bob Malloy, a six-and-a-half-foot giant of a man with whiskers tough enough to strike a match on, shoulders as wide as a carbine, and not an ounce of fat or a whit of mercy in his body.
Ben squatted next to his sleeping bag and touched his shoulder. Malloy came instantly awake, and with a lightning fast movement brought the tip of his K-Bar knife to Ben’s throat.
“Oh, it’s you, General.” Malloy shook his head, then stared around the camp. “Where are my sentries, and how did you get past them?”
“They’re still out there, Sergeant, but don’t blame them for not seeing or hearing me. I was sneaking past sentries when they were still in diapers.”
Malloy pursed his lips. “OK, General. What’s up?” Malloy leaned up on one elbow, holding up a hand as one of his men, hearing voices, aimed his M-1
6 at Ben’s back.
“I want to run with you for a while. You’ll remain in command, and I’ll just be one of your men for a day or two.”
Malloy’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t understand, General. What’s going on?”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly. “Did you ever lose some of your men, Sergeant, men who were very close to you?”
Malloy nodded. “Yeah, but that’s all part of the gig.”
“I know, but last night I lost two of my closest team members, people who have been with me from almost the beginning of this war.”
Malloy’s eyes narrowed. “And now you’ve got the killin’ rage, huh?”
Ben was glad to see the man understood. “Yeah. I want some blood, some revenge, and I want to do it personally, not at long range.”
“And you’ll follow my orders? ’Cause I don’t hanker to get me or my men killed on account of your taste for revenge.”
“Yes, I’ll follow your orders, Sergeant. If you doubt my ability, ask your sentries how I got by them.”
Malloy rolled out of his sleeping bag. “OK, Boss. So, how about you gettin’ the fire started and fixin’ us some coffee while I scrape some of this hair off my face and brush my teeth?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben answered with a mock salute.
Malloy scowled. “And don’t call me sir! I ain’t no officer, I work for a livin’!”
Ben grinned and began to build a fire and make coffee.
Malloy’s team accepted Ben at face value. They had all had the killing rage before, and knew that only blood for blood could cure it. Otherwise, it would eat at a man and make him a danger to himself and his compatriots.
Over coffee and cigarettes the men asked Ben how the campaign in Africa was going. He told them what he knew, which wasn’t much, since the other brigade commanders hadn’t reported in for several days.
“Overall,” he said, “I think Bottger’s on the run. We haven’t encountered any of his army for a week or more now, just local tribesmen he’s hired to do his dirty work.”
Malloy nodded, taking a final puff of his homemade and pinching off the fire. “Yeah, I think he’s pullin’ back for a final stand somewhere . . . probably where he’ll have a tactical advantage, in the mountains or highlands so he can force a fight where our planes and helicopters won’t be of much use.”
Ben looked at Malloy, seeing him in a new light. “That’s pretty astute, Bob. What makes you think that?”
Malloy shrugged. “’Cause it’s what I’d do if I was gettin’ my butt kicked by an army that had me out-manned and outgunned and had control of the air.”
“That so?” Ben asked.
“Sure. I studied up on the old Viet Nam war. Hell, the Americans had better everything, and all the gooks had was the jungle and the sense not to take us on in a head-to-head fight. Every time they did, we kicked their ass. But in the jungles, where our tanks couldn’t go, and our planes couldn’t see to bomb or strafe, it was a different story.”
Ben grinned. “Maybe we’re wasting your talents as a Scout, Bob. Maybe we ought to have you in headquarters, in tactics.”
“Oh no, Boss. I’ll go AWOL ’fore I’ll take a desk job.” He looked around at the jungle on all sides. “This is what I like to do, what I live to do.”
“Yeah, General . . . I mean Boss,” a lean, muscled Latino named Juan said from the other side of the fire, “if Sarge hasn’t cut at least one throat by noon, he figures the day’s wasted.”
Ben laughed with the others. He was in. They considered him a team member, and would allow him to work with them without any trouble.
Ben’s chronograph watch showed just after nine in the morning when he heard a double click on the combat mike all members of the team members wore.
Bob was on point, as was the Sergeant’s right, and the double click was his signal that hostiles were ahead.
The team was spread out laterally in the jungle. Each man could barely make out the men on either side of him, only if he knew where they were. The Scouts were masters of camouflage, and blended into the jungle like chameleons on a leaf.
A single click followed shortly, which meant hand-to-hand—knives, not pistols or rifles.
Good, Ben thought, just the way he wanted it. To get up close and personal, to reach out and touch someone, as the old commercials used to say.
He eased forward through leafy elephant ear plants and other low-lying bushes until he came upon a clearing. There, in the center of the open space, were about fifteen black natives. They were not farmers or ‘civilians’, for each man had an AK47 or some other type of automatic weapon next to him.
They were sitting on their haunches, eating rice and meat out of a pot, scooping it out with their fingers and then licking it off.
There didn’t appear to be any sentries posted, so Ben assumed they felt they were safe in this area. That’s probably the same thing Malloy figured, and why he didn’t want to use any weapons that would reveal their presence. These soldiers evidently had colleagues nearby.
Ben readied himself, picking out his targets. He figured he could get the two nearest his position before they got off a shot, if he was quick enough and a little bit lucky.
When Malloy clicked the mike again the entire team rushed the group around the fire. It was eerie, because they made no sounds—no yelling or screaming—just a deadly quiet rush of death.
Ben made it almost to the first man before he even looked up. As his eyes rose to see Ben rushing him and his mouth opened to scream, Ben gave a quick forehand slash with the knife laid back along his wrist. It sliced through skin, tissue, and windpipe cartilage, catching a little as it nicked the man’s neck vertebrae.
Other than a soft bubbly moan as the man choked on his own blood, no sound escaped before Ben was past the already dead man and headed for his next target. He didn’t have time to check and see if the others were being successful. That was what being part of a team meant. You had to trust your fellow soldiers to do their duty, as you were doing yours.
Ben’s second target had time to raise his AK47 and point it at Ben before he could get to him. Out of range of his K-Bar, Ben threw himself sideways in a spinning, jumping karate kick.
His combat boot caught the AK47 just in front of the stock and knocked it from the man’s arms. The native spun around, caught himself, and drew a wicked looking machete from a scabbard on his belt.
He and Ben circled each other, each slowly waving his blade back and forth, looking for an opening. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Malloy aim a pistol at his man.
Ben called out softly, “No, Bob. No noise. I can take him.”
The rest of the team, done with their grisly handiwork, settled around in a circle to watch, wondering if the middle-aged general had it in him to take this tribesman—twelve inch knife against thirty-six-inch machete.
The man quickly stepped in, making two short, fasts slashes with his machete. Ben caught the first on the knuckle guard of his knife, and slipped the second to the side.
As the man stumbled, off balance, he half turned away. Ben dropped the knife and stepped in and with a spinning Rik-hand blow, drove his middle two knuckles into the man’s temple, fracturing his skull and killing him instantly.
The Scout team made no comment, showing they had known Ben could handle the situation without any problem. They began to gather weapons and ammunition to stash it all in the jungle, where it couldn’t be found and used against The Rebel Army.
Malloy had managed to capture his man alive, and began the interrogation. Though it made him uncomfortable to watch the torture, Ben sat through it with no expression on his face. He knew the enemy would do much worse to any Rebel soldier they captured.
Malloy found out there were in fact many more soldiers, nearby and to the east. He radioed their location back to Michaels at headquarters, then turned to his men.
“Do you want to wait for the whirlybirds to come in and blast ’em, or do you want to have a
little fun ourselves?”
The vote was unanimous.
The ten Scouts and Ben then managed to sneak up on and attack from all sides a force of approximately one hundred native soldiers.
This time, there was no effort to be silent. After all Malloy’s forces had taken out the sentries that were posted, they gathered in a circle around the force and simultaneously threw fragmentation grenades into the midst of the soldiers.
As these exploded they rushed the group, screaming loudly, some with old Confederate Rebel yells, others with Indian type yelps. The Scouts had weapons on full automatic fire, with magazines taped back-to-back for quick reloading and shotguns on straps around shoulders.
The battle was over in less than five minutes, with only one Scout wounded. He took a slug through the fleshy part of his flank, and protested mightily when Malloy told him he would have to return to base for medical treatment with the choppers when they arrived.
After the Apache and Huey gunships did arrive, they expressed their disappointment at being kept out of the action. They picked up the wounded Scout and Ben, who decided he had satisfied his killing rage and could go back to being a CG again.
Just before he boarded the chopper, each of the Scouts took his hand.
Malloy said, “Boss, any time you get tired of all the bullshit that comes with being a leader, you’re welcome to come visit me for a little . . . break.”
“Thanks, Bob. I may just take you up on that,” Ben said as he climbed into the Huey. “Take care, guys.”
Back at the base, John Watson was much relieved to relinquish command to Ben, and Ben’s team was so furious with him they would hardly speak to him for several hours.
They finally calmed down when he explained why he did what he did, and promised next time not to go off having so much fun unless he took them with him.
It was six more days before Ben and his troops arrived at the north bank of the Congo River, which served as the border for, and ran between, Cabinda and Angola.
John Michaels had already had the engineers build pontoon bridges across the river, so Ben and his men just walked across.
Triumph in the Ashes Page 8