Hunt the Leopard

by Don Mann

  “Do we have a deal?” Festus Ratty asked.

  “Yes, but there’s one condition. First, you have to punish the men who staged the attack.”

  “You want me to blow up a Nigerian military outpost? I’ll do it right away.”

  “No. The attackers weren’t Nigerians,” Balt cautioned. “I’m hearing that they were either Americans or British.”

  “British?” Festus Ratty knew the stories about the almost fifty years of British colonial rule: how the British had imposed Western education and Christianity on the Nigerian people, had profited from the cultivation of cacao, and peanuts, and had even pumped Nigerian oil out of the ground to run their buses and cars. “Who told you this?”

  “I have it on good authority,” Victor Balt answered. “Before we do any more business, I want you to punish them.”

  Crocker was trying to stay calm. It had already been a challenging day and it was only two-thirds over. He’d spent the last two hours trying to get Tiny Chavez released from a Nigerian military police prison cell.

  In all the confusion and exhaustion, Crocker had forgotten that they had left Tiny behind in Yola. Only this morning had he learned that after Crocker and team had left last night, Tiny had been detained and arrested for recruiting a small group of Nigerian soldiers and commandeering a Nigeria helicopter against the orders of AFSF 72 commander Colonel Nwosu in Abuja and the officers in charge of the TOC in Yola.

  It had been Tiny’s intention to rescue the wounded men near the Cameroon border and aid his teammates—understandable and admirable to Crocker’s mind, but a decision that had grated against the political and cultural sensitivities of the Nigerians.

  Needless to say, Nigerian military officers were severely pissed off. Today it had taken several calls to the Nigerian military command in Abuja, and apologies by Crocker to Colonel Nwosu, to secure Tiny’s release.

  Now he was on the phone with his own commander, Captain Sutter, at DEVGRU headquarters in Virginia, who also sounded annoyed.

  Holding the phone in one hand and a bottle of mineral water in the other, Crocker explained: “No, sir, the mission wasn’t planned. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to accompany the Nigerians, and one for which I take full responsibility.”

  “Then you’ve got a shitload of explaining to do, Crocker.”

  He wanted to say, “I don’t feel like explaining anything now,” but decided against it.

  Instead, he asked, “Can I call you back later, sir?”

  “No, you cannot!”

  He was about to explain that he was missing his daughter’s graduation, which he had planned to follow via Skype, but Sutter cut him off.

  “Washington is demanding answers now!”

  Crocker took a deep breath. His relationship with Captain Sutter—who he had considered a tough but sympathetic commander and a Kentucky gentleman—had been severely strained by the mission to Syria four months ago. Since then they had maintained a respectful standoff, avoiding each other except when absolutely necessary.

  Crocker still couldn’t forgive Sutter for not supporting him and his men at a critical time during the mission to Syria, and for even betraying them by approving the drone strikes that had nearly killed them, and had resulted in the death of his friend Séverine.

  He exhaled deeply. “Sir, what do you want to know?”

  “You can start by telling me who authorized this godforsaken mission, and why I wasn’t informed?”

  Frustration with himself and anger over what had happened in Syria rushed back, and Crocker imagined grabbing the captain by the neck and lifting him off his feet.

  With great restraint, he answered. “Sir, all I can report with certainty are the sequence of events. They went like this…At around 2200 hours last night, the fourteenth, 72 AFSF received intel from a local source about Boko Haram forces moving toward the—”

  Sutter cut him off. “The Nigerians?”

  “The Nigerians, yes. They’re the ones who received the intel. It came from a source of theirs.”

  “Who specifically are you dealing with there?”

  Crocker took another deep breath. He preferred not to do this now, not when the feelings were so raw, not when his daughter Jenny’s boyfriend was expecting his Skype call, but tried to tell himself why it was necessary from ST-6 HQ’s perspective.

  “Okay…The officer in charge here is a man named Major Wally Martins.”

  “I’ve heard he has a good reputation…”

  Crocker ducked that comment, reporting instead, “One of the major’s junior officers received intel from a source about a column of Boko Haram fighters moving toward the Cameroon border for a possible weapons exchange. Because of potential problems an influx of arms into terrorist hands could cause, a decision was made by Major Martins to see what Boko Haram was up to. He invited us to tag along in an advisory capacity.”

  “He invited you?”

  “Yes.”

  “As advisors?” Sutter asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Jesus Christ, Crocker. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He took a swig of water and waited for his anger to fade.

  “Sir, our brief was to train 72 AFSF to function as a quick-reaction antiterrorist force. This was the first opportunity to test our training in a possible live-action situation.”

  “Your training, or theirs?” Captain Sutter asked, sarcastically. “This was supposed to be a soft mission, not a goddamn smashup with downed helicopters and multiple casualties.”

  “Believe me, captain, none of that was intended. The Nigerians invited us along and we went. It’s as straightforward as that. If you want to criticize me for not being better prepared, or for expecting a more robust response from the Nigerians here at Yola after we were attacked, go ahead.”

  “First I want to know why your chain of command, which includes me, wasn’t briefed prior to the mission.”

  Crocker took a swig of water and a deep breath. “There was no time, sir. And since we were acting within the precepts of our mission, I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  “Which one is it?”

  “Like I said before, we complied with our ROEs. We didn’t go expecting to engage in combat, nor did we expect the level of resistance we encountered, or the terrible weather, or the bad piloting, or the second helicopter deciding to turn tail and run.”

  “I get that, Crocker, but—”

  Crocker’s emotions continued rising. “We basically got caught in a major shit storm, captain. And I can assure you it wasn’t fun. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a group of British military contractors who showed up unexpectedly, we’d probably all be dead now, or be held by Boko Haram. But, thank God, we caught some luck and in the process were able to rescue the schoolgirls, which was a real big plus, in my opinion.”

  “A real big plus in a lot of ways,” Sutter replied. “Because those schoolgirls are likely gonna save your ass as far as Washington is concerned.”

  “Sir…” He was about to add, “I could give a shit about that,” but stopped himself.

  “I note for the record that this is the second time this year this has happened.”

  Crocker gritted his teeth to hold back a scream. Captain Sutter was referring to the recent Syrian op, which had similar circumstances when Black Cell’s rescue of an American nurse held hostage by ISIS had helped them avoid charges of disobeying orders.

  He said, “You really want to rub salt into that wound again, sir?”

  “That’s not my intention…All I can say is that you better hope this Major Martins backs up your story, because otherwise you’re likely to find yourself neck-deep in horseshit.”

  Crocker waited a beat before he said, “Major Martins died in the encounter.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. Died when the helo went down.”

  A long pause followed. “You’re a lucky man, Crocker.”

  “Better lucky than good, right, Captain?”

 
Chapter Fourteen

  “If you close your eyes to facts you will

  learn through accidents.”

  —African proverb

  Chichima dreamt that she was back sitting on the ground in the Sambisa Forest listening to the strange little imam in the purple prayer hat. He spoke into a microphone, which he held in his right hand, which was missing two fingers and looked like a hoof.

  “Obedience to Allah is a form of worship.”

  The three rows of girls around her, all wearing matching dark-green hijabs, repeated his words in unison.

  The heat felt extremely oppressive. The trance-like lifelessness of the girls made her feel alone.

  The imam’s strange speech, long hair, and shrunken body and face reminded her of Dre Head from Harry Potter. Wanting badly to escape, she wished she had the powers of an Animagus—a witch or wizard capable of changing into animal form—like Sirius Black, and could transform into a large black dog and trot off into the forest.

  In a high, whining voice the imam explained the process of ghusl, or washing the body with water—obligatory for women after menstruation and recommended before performing Friday prayers. Each word felt like a little drop of poison.

  He said: “You always wash the right hand and wrist first, making sure to rub between the fingers. You wash it three times before repeating the same process on the left hand. Then you cleanse all impurities off the private parts with clean water. Then you wash the right hand and left hand each three times again.”

  The girls sat frozen. None of them protested. Not a groan, a whisper, a glance, or a raised eyebrow. Their indifference made Chichima feel more frustrated and alone.

  “Next you form a cup with your right hand, fill it with water, swirl it inside your mouth, and then spit it out. Again, using your right hand, you fill it with more fresh water and inhale it into your nose. Then, covering your left nostril with your left hand, you blow any remaining water out of your right nostril. You do both procedures three times.”

  She couldn’t tell if the extreme heat she was feeling was coming from the sun or inside herself. The girl to her right started to tremble. Waves of heat came off her body, and then very slowly her head started to melt, dripping onto her shoulders and over the front of her chest.

  Chichima opened her mouth to alert the imam, but no words came out.

  He continued: “Next you wash your face from hairline to chin three times. Then you pour fresh water over your head three times and rub the roots of the hair with your wet fingers. Next, you pour water liberally over the entire body, starting with the right side and moving left.”

  The head of the girl in front of her started melting, too. She tried to stand, but her legs were frozen. She raised her hand instead.

  The imam closed his eyes and spoke so quickly that his words ran together. “Finally, you move away from the area where you performed your ghusl and wash your feet three times up to your ankles, starting with your right foot, making sure that no parts of the feet are dry.”

  Heat ran up and down Chichima’s arm. Her fingers lost all feeling, and she woke in a panic, bathed in sweat. Shook her right hand to restore the feeling, which slowly returned.

  And sat up, realizing she was in her bed back home.

  Crocker’s Suunto Traverse Alpha watch read 2212 as he trudged from the gym to the barracks, covered with sweat, his arms heavy and limp by his side, scolding himself for being a bad father, son, and husband.

  Why do I always let down the people I love? My mother, my wives, now my daughter…What is wrong with me?

  Imagining what he was going to say to Jenny when he called her and explained why he had failed to Skype her graduation, he looked up and saw three Nigerian soldiers hurrying toward him, MP5s slung over their shoulders, and stiffened for a second.

  Now what?

  “Mister Crocker?” one of the soldiers shouted.

  He stopped. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s up?”

  One of them shone a flashlight in his eyes.

  “You are Chief Crocker?”

  He shielded them with his hand. “Who wants to know?”

  He thought that the next thing they were going to try to do was arrest him, or take him somewhere to face more annoying questions. His mind was already quickly running through his possible excuses—I can’t talk now, I’m needed at the hospital, any questions should be directed to my commander back in the States.

  “You come, Chief…” one the Nigerian soldiers barked as he lowered the flashlight to the ground. Crocker recognized him as one of the more disciplined and sympathetic members of 72 AFSF. A tall kid named Chuk who was a fan of American baseball. Watched it streaming on the internet when he could. Admired Aaron Judge of the Yankees.

  “Where you taking me, Chuk?” Crocker asked. “Is there a problem?”

  Chuk waved him forward toward the front gate. His English wasn’t good. “You come quick. You see…”

  “What?”

  “Come now, Chief…You see. Please!”

  “Maybe later. I’ve got to clean up first.”

  “No. No, later no good. You come now!”

  Crocker didn’t know how to interpret Chuk’s insistence. Decided to trust him. With the tall Nigerian leading the way and the other two soldiers on either side of him, he accompanied them at a brisk pace past 72 AFSF HQ to the front gate. Saw a group of people waiting. Mostly solemn-looking men dressed in dark colors.

  Looks like a lynch mob…

  He was very aware he was unarmed, carried no phone or ID, and was only wearing a sweaty T-shirt and shorts. Thought about turning and beating it the hell back to the barracks.

  Before he had a chance, a thickly built man wearing an ill-fitting suit and a strange bowler hat stepped forward, opened his arms, and wrapped Crocker in a hug. Crocker, who had never seen the man before, froze for a moment. Then the other dozen or so people closed around him and patted him on the back and head.

  They chanted, “Crocker, Crocker, Crocker…”

  He was totally confused until he saw the boy standing on crutches behind them. It was Azi, who smiled and waved the same little hand that had been playing with a lizard last night by the fence.

  The boy pointed at Crocker and shouted, “Thank you.”

  Crocker waved back.

  Chichima and her mother and sister had been cooking for two days—plates of fried plantains and samosas, bowls of garden eggs (eggplant) stew and jollof, and cassava cakes with a creamy custard topping. She had enjoyed it because it had taken her mind off herself and what had happened, and it made her feel she could still do something useful.

  Now, she and her parents were seated in her father’s old white Toyota 4-Runner on their way to the 72 AFSF base for the memorial for Major Martins and the fallen pilots and soldiers. Her hair had been conditioned with shea butter and jojoba, and newly braided, and she was dressed in the same white blouse and black skirt that she had often worn to class. No gele—head covering—on her head.

  Her mother had asked her to wear purple or gold, but she refused. Why, she didn’t know. In a childish kind of way, she enjoyed the ability to make decisions for herself.

  This was the closest Chichima had been to Yola since her return, and familiar sights passed outside—traffic circles crowded with cars, motorcycles, and three-wheeled taxis, shops and stalls selling electronic products, furniture, and medicine, women and men with baskets on their heads hauling vegetables and fruit to the market.

  She noted the changes, too. A new, modern three-story building, new-model cars, posters for movies and music she’d never heard of. Feelings of displacement grew, reminding her of the cartoon version of Rip Van Winkle she’d watched on Lagos Weekend Television as a little girl.

  Seeing a young woman sweeping the front of a store with a palm frond broom, she remembered the character Sharru Nada in the book The Richest Man in Babylon, who, when he arrived in Babylon as a slave, saw some poor workers toiling near the gateway to the city. Forty years late
r, when he returned to Babylon a wealthy man, he noticed the same men working in the same spot.

  I know how he felt…

  They were traveling on Yola Road, and had just passed the turnoff for the airport. The entrance to the Government Girls’ School lay ahead. Chichima started to ask her father to take another route, when her mother took her hand and held it.

  Her mother said, “When the roots are deep there’s no reason to fear the wind.”

  Chichima expected the sight of the high ochre-colored wall and the large iron gates to revive the horror of that night two years ago. They filled with warm memories instead—of her teachers, friends, and the discussions they had about books, clothes, and favorite movies.

  Once she was an enthusiastic young student looking forward to an exciting future. Now she wasn’t sure who she was, or what she wanted. Inside she felt like the same strong person. She would find a way back to that, somehow.

  Crocker had finally reached Jenny to congratulate her for graduating from junior college, and apologize for not being able to Skype. “I got caught up in something and couldn’t call in time.”

  For the umpteenth time in her life, she forgave him. “I understand, Dad.” She’d learned that although his work often didn’t allow him to be at family events in person, he was always supportive.

  Now she was telling him about the job she’d started as assistant manager of the Hilton Hotel in Virginia Beach and how much she was enjoying it. She had talked about how she was thinking of transferring to a four-year college to pursue a degree in hotel management.

  “It all sounds wonderful, sweetheart. Listening to you fills me with pride.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He bid her goodbye, thinking about how it seemed like months ago he had been holding her—a newborn—in his arms. Now she was a young woman with a boyfriend and a promising future.

  His own felt more uncertain. The Navy and SEAL teams had been his salvation and way of life. Many of his old friends back in Methuen, Massachusetts, hadn’t found a positive path, and ended up lost in drug addiction, alcoholism, and lives of crime.