Deadly Force sts-18

by Keith Douglass

  They worked on sandwiches and the first canteen of water.

  “Figure we’ve made about fifteen miles,” Murdock said. “The going will be slower the fewer people travel this trail and the farther we get from the city.”

  “Right. When do you think we’ll hit the first outpost? He’s got to have one along this trail.”

  “My guess is about five miles from his main camp. If he’s at the twenty-five-mile marker, we have another five miles before we have company.”

  “Will they be friendly?” Howard asked.

  “Would you be?”

  “Hell, no. Shoot first and talk later if anyone is still alive.”

  “So we move cautiously that last three or four miles to the twenty-mile mark. Maybe even ditch our bikes and take the rest of it on a hike so we can bypass the outpost.”

  “Sounds like a winner to me.”

  They rode again. The going was rough with washouts, potholes, and sometimes large tree roots exposed from the ground clogging the trail. Murdock doubted if they were making more than ten miles an hour.

  A little after 0930, Howard held up his hand to stop. “Commander, figure we shouldn’t make so much noise this far north. Maybe some hiking would be called for.”

  “Agreed. We stash the bikes where we can find them and nobody will steal them, then take one canteen and some sandwiches and take a stroll down a country lane.”

  A mile up the trail, Murdock paused. He was sniffing the air. “We haven’t seen a village for the past mile or so. But I smell something that shouldn’t be here.”

  Howard moved up beside the officer and grinned. “Skipper, sir, you must have led a sheltered life. That, my friend, is good old Mary Jane smoke, pot, the weed, marijuana. Somebody is puffing up a storm up here not more than a hundred yards ahead. Wind must be blowing our way.”

  Murdock chuckled. “Hell, you’re right. I wasn’t that sheltered. It’s just been a few years. How about a detour?”

  Howard pointed to the side of the trail away from the river, and they moved into the tropical-rain-forest tangle of vines, trees, brush, and creatures slithering along the moist jungle floor. Murdock took the lead using his best silent-movement approach as he went under, over, around, and through the growth, trying not to disturb a branch or step on anything that would screech in terror or break with a crack.

  Fifty yards later, he angled back toward the trail and peered through the last foliage that screened him from the path. Twenty yards ahead, he saw a native hut that had been built almost on the trail. It was made of branches and some woven reeds or fronds for the sides and roof. It had a window and a doorway. In the window he could see a man resting his arms on it and looking down the trail. Twice Murdock saw the man sneak a puff on a nub of a cigarette. The man said something softly and passed the smoke to someone else. Howard slid in beside Murdock and saw the exchange. They nodded and headed back into the growth until they were fifty yards past the outpost, then returned to the path.

  Now it was little more than a trail, nearly hidden by new plants and in some places vanishing completely, being taken over by the voracious growth of the greenery. Murdock decided it would be a great place to raise tomatoes. Think how fast they would grow. Of course you’d have to cut down some trees and brush so the sun could get in to ripen the fruit.

  They hiked steadily for another half hour, and then Murdock held up his hand and they stopped. They listened.

  “Rifle fire,” Howard said. “Could be the flat crack of the old AK-47. Must still be a lot of them around.”

  “Right, and as deadly as ever. Good range, too. So what are they doing?”

  “Target practice. We hear firing for a while, then all is quiet as they check the targets, then more firing. Ready on the right, ready on the left, ready on the firing line.”

  They both knew the routine. They moved with more caution now. The trail came closer to the river, which had shrunk in size as they’d climbed a gradual incline. Here and there they heard some rapids and saw a little white water. No boat was going up this stretch unless it was a jet-powered boat with no propeller.

  “Will there be any more outposts?” Howard asked.

  “I’d put in at least one more. From the rifle firing, my guess is his camp is on this side of the river. So we look for another outpost or at least a lookout along here anytime now.”

  “We go around him again?”

  “Don’t think so.” Murdock said. “If it’s handy, we capture him without harming him. Then we take him with us up where he can help us get through their defenses so we can talk with the good Mr. Washington.”

  “That just may be an idea whose time has come. You want me on point?”

  They moved cautiously now. There was more rifle fire and it was getting closer, but it still sounded like target practice. They paused at each small turn in the trail and checked ahead. The fourth time they did it, they grinned. A lone cammy-clad soldier with a long gun over his shoulder walked from one side of a small clearing to the other side directly across the trail. Evidently this was his post and he had to walk it in a military manner.

  Murdock signaled to the left and they faded into the jungle. Moving silently, they worked up to the far point of the guard’s walking post. It was less than four feet from the jungle itself. Murdock eased up behind a huge tree and waited. The guard walked toward him, stopped, then did an about-face to go back in the other direction. That was when Murdock surged out of the jungle, took two steps, and hit the guard in the middle of his back, driving him forward and into the grass and weeds on his stomach. Murdock’s hand went around the soldier’s mouth holding it tightly.

  Howard slid in beside them and fastened the guard’s ankles with plastic riot cuffs, then caught his hands and brought them both behind him and manacled them. Murdock turned him over still holding his mouth closed.

  “Now, young man, we don’t want to hurt you. We’re here to talk to your leader, Mojombo. Is he at this camp?”

  The wild-eyed man mumbled something. Murdock took his hand away and the man screamed. Murdock’s hand clamped back tight. Howard took a kerchief from his pocket and fashioned a gag around the man’s head and through his mouth. He could breathe but couldn’t yell. They sat him up and Murdock tried again.

  “We’re not here to harm you or you’d be dead already. Don’t you agree?” The guard’s eyes had lost their wild look and he nodded slowly. “We want to talk to Mr. Washington. Is he in this camp?”

  The guard nodded again.

  “How far is the camp? A mile?” The head shook no. “Two miles?” This time a nod.

  “If I take off the gag, will you promise not to yell or scream, just talk to us?” The man frowned, evidently thought about it, then nodded. The gag came off.

  “Now, Mr. Washington is at the camp close by. Can you take us there?”

  “No, there are other guards.”

  “How many?”

  “Three more. One every half mile.”

  “Can we go into the jungle and go around them?”

  “No. A rocky wall on one side, the river on the other side. The guards would see us and shoot.”

  “Do you have a radio?”

  “No, only officers have them.”

  “We could capture the other three guards,” Howard said.

  Murdock considered it. “Could, but a big risk factor. I have a notion that most of these conscripts are green and any little thing out of the ordinary, they’re going to start shooting. We can’t shoot back. Would put us in a dangerous position. So we go back.” He dug into his cammy shirt pocket and took out a computer-printed message the ambassador had given Murdock before they left.

  He unfolded it and showed it to the guard. “This is a message from the U.S. ambassador at Sierra City. He wants to help the Vice President. It tells him to turn on his SATCOM every day at noon and again at six in the evening so the ambassador can talk with him. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes. Understand. Who are you?”

/>   “Tell Mojombo Washington that we are U.S. Navy SEALs. We may wind up helping him instead of hunting him. The Vice President must talk to the ambassador every day. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes sir.” He frowned. “Are you an officer?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock in the U.S. Navy. That’s like a major in the Army. Can you take this to your commander?”

  “When my guard duty is over in an hour. That way I won’t get in trouble for leaving my post.”

  Murdock grinned. Somebody had trained this boy well. He looked no more than seventeen.

  “All right. You do that. At the end of your shift you talk to your sergeant and tell him you have to see Mr. Washington. Here, give him this. It’s one of the new U.S. gold-plated dollar coins. My good-luck charm. Give it to General Washington.”

  The guard looked at the coin, read the printing, and grinned. “Yes, I can do this. It will be good on my record.” He frowned. “Can you untie me now?”

  * * *

  It took Murdock and Howard two hours to work back down the faint trail and around the first outpost. Then they jogged down the path toward their bikes. They stopped at the bikes and ate half the sandwiches and drank from the canteens.

  “If we push it, we can get back to civilization in three hours,” Murdock said. “I just hope that half the countryside isn’t returning from market day and clogging up the road.”

  They were. Murdock groaned. They pulled into the embassy grounds slightly before 1700, just in time for chow at the cafeteria.

  The ambassador welcomed the news of the contact. He checked his watch. Dinner was over. “Five minutes to six. Time for us to set up the SATCOM and try to talk to the Vice President. This could be the contact we need to turn round this difficult situation.”

  12

  Camp Freedom

  Sierra Bijimi

  Vice President Adams turned on his SATCOM radio at five minutes until six and set it to receive on the same frequency he had used when talking with the White House.

  It had been an interesting afternoon. The sentry had talked to his sergeant, who’d brought him at once to see Mojombo Washington. Adams had been in the leader’s tent at the time. The soldier, in his new cammies, saluted smartly and handed a folded sheet of paper to his commander.

  Mojombo took it and read it. He looked up and frowned, then read the words again.

  “How did you get this message, Private?”

  “Two men in uniforms almost like ours, but they had black marks on their faces like camouflage.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot them?”

  “They slipped up on me. I never heard them. Then they hit me in my back and knocked me down.”

  “Did they have weapons?”

  “Yes, sir, some kind of submachine gun. Short ones tied over their backs.”

  Mojombo’s voice softened. “Did they tell you who they were?”

  “Yes, sir. One said he was Commander Blake Mur something. That he was a U.S. Navy SEAL.”

  “Be damned,” Adams said. “They slipped past all of your security to get to this guy. They are experts at infiltration. They could do it.”

  “These men, did they hurt you?”

  “No, sir. Tied my ankles and hands with plastic cuffs at first, then let me go. They mostly just talked to me.”

  “Did they kill any of our guards?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. All of our group of guards were present when we were relieved about half an hour ago.”

  “Thank you, Private. You did your duty well. You will get a special commendation and a promotion. You’re now a corporal and you are dismissed.”

  The man turned, and a wave of relief washed over his face as he hurried out of the tent.

  “What does it say?” Adams asked.

  “Message to you from Ambassador Oberholtzer.” He handed the message to the Vice President. He read it.

  “Mr. Vice President. I hope this message gets to you. First, we must communicate. You have a SATCOM. So do I. It would be most helpful, sir, if you could turn your set on every day at twelve noon and again at six for any messages we have for you or that you might have for us. Leave it on the same frequency you used to talk to the President.

  “We are aware of your solid support for the Bijimi Loyalist Party and Mojombo Washington. We are desperate to know more about him and his plans, and what you want to do in the next few days. The President is still concerned about your safety.

  “Please let us know what we can do to help you. Two Navy SEALs have delivered this message. They have been instructed not to harm in any way any of the Mojombo forces. I trust they achieved this today and delivered the message.

  “If you could confirm your receipt of this message at six o’clock this evening, we can talk.

  “May you stay safe and in good health and spirits. I am respectfully your servant: Ambassador Nance Oberholtzer.”

  “What time is it?” The Vice President looked at his watch, a solar-tech one powered by the sun or any other light, which charged the batteries. “Good, only three-thirty. We’ll talk with the ambassador tonight. Maybe we can get those SEALs to help us launch some attacks. They are good, fantastic. The best trained and most effective sea, land, or air combat forces ever assembled.”

  “How many of them?” Mojombo asked.

  “That’s the beauty of them. They work in platoons of sixteen men. Only two officers, but in the field every man is of equal rank. It’s amazing what they can do. We send them all over the world on a covert basis to get our chestnuts out of the fire.”

  “Who sent them here?” Mojombo asked.

  “That’s one question we’ll have for the ambassador. Let’s write down any more questions you have and we’ll both talk to him.”

  The leader of the rebels stood up from the chair and paced around the tent. He sat down, got up again, and walked outside. Vice President Adams waited for him. When he came back he sat down and frowned, then gave a long sigh.

  “Is this a good thing? This talking to the center of our enemy?”

  “The ambassador is not your enemy. He’s probably the best friend you have in Sierra City. This can only lead to help for you, benefits for you.”

  “I have no doubt that these SEALs are terrific. However, they are only sixteen. What can sixteen do against four thousand armed troops shooting at them?”

  “Like you, Mojombo, they don’t engage in pitched battles except when they can assure surprise or a crushing blow with something other than manpower. Let’s wait and see what the ambassador has to say.”

  “We will wait. In the meantime, we were working on some ideas for attacks on the corrupt politicians. We already hit the main police station and the Army base. Should we burn down the Hall of Democracy, where the legislature meets?”

  “Doesn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe we should concentrate on the military. Snipers could infiltrate far enough so you could shoot up the two small helicopters that the Army has. That would put their entire air force out of commission.”

  “Yes, good idea. We’ll send a four-man team in tonight to do that. Let me get the men started downstream on our smaller boat. The choppers are kept in the open at the Army camp just north of the capital. It will be a two-day mission. Now what else?”

  “Electrical power. Where do you get it from?”

  “Most of it comes across the border with Bijimi. We used to be part of that country. The British built the hydroelectric plant twenty years ago. Now it serves four different nations.”

  “So we leave the generators alone, and take down the lines that bring the power across the border. That would black out most of the nation and would cause an immediate uproar and problems for the Kolda government.”

  “I wonder about that. It would cause government turmoil, but the main losers would be the people, who would suffer the most. Let’s get some better ideas.”

  “My Navy days didn’t include a lot of G-2,” Adams said. “The fact is I was a lowly lieute
nant in the black-water boats that got shot up six different times in Vietnam.”

  “The police, the Army,” Mojombo said. “Those have to be our targets. I hesitate to do anything that will kill civilians or make their lives any harder than they are right now.”

  “Yes, I get the picture. My next suggestion is that you’re too far from the center of the action. You need to move closer to Sierra City.”

  “But wouldn’t that put us in more danger from a raid by the Army? They could being in two thousand men with weapons and rout us in five minutes.”

  “Not if you move into an area and get the civilian population entirely on your side. Then if the Army tries to come in, your soldiers can fight or fade into the jungle and the civilians will come out in the street and totally swamp the soldiers. Civilians always inhibit a fighting force. You told me that the Army units won’t chase you into the jungle. They proved that before.”

  “This idea of starting to enlist all the people in a town is good. I’ve thought of it, but haven’t tried it. Say we moved down to the village called Tinglat. We would still be twenty miles from the city. There are over a thousand people in that village who raise some crops, cut wood, and harvest certain trees from the forest. I have friends there. Yes, I think they will support me. I’ll go down there tomorrow with twenty of my men and we’ll talk to them.

  “They will be my people. I can protect them from the cheating tax collectors who routinely rob the workers in the villages. We’ll strip the tax men and tar them and cover them with chicken feathers before we float them down the river on a small raft. Yes, I think we can do it. We’ll start to claim territory and the population. When we get one area well protected, we’ll get volunteers to swell our fighting ranks and then move to the next village as we make another jump closer to the city.”

  “Now, what about new targets for your night raiders? The government forces will soon be patrolling the river, so you might have to come in by land the last ten miles or so. Any more small Army units you could hit, or government warehouses stacked with foreign-aid food, say?”