Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (17 page)

“LET’S GO,” SAID GEORGE, JUST LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD
over the rain.

“It’s raining,” Jamal said.

“Boy, that’s just the thing we need to cover our tracks. How you think I found y’all? It wasn’t luck. You left a trail a blind man could follow.”

George pushed himself onto his haunches, his huge frame diverting part of the curtain of rain penetrating the bush where they hid. Tommy wiped water from his eyes. His sister, Selma, cradled against Victoria.

“Come on, Selma,” Victoria said to Jamal’s sister, who was whimpering softly. Victoria took Selma by the hand.

His sister was scared. So was he.

George pushed his head through the edge of the bush, and after several seconds pulled himself back. “I don’t see anything. Stay close and stay together. No talking.”

“Where’re we going?” Victoria asked.

“Anywhere but here is where we’re going, woman.”

“Just asking, asshole.”

Even the thick flood falling from the skies couldn’t hide the smile on George’s face. “Victoria,” he said softly, nodding.

“George,” she replied.

George was gone, his body through the thick leaves and branches hiding the small space beneath the bush. Victoria and Selma followed with Jamal behind them. No way he was going to be left behind.

The jungle looked different in the rain. It was always hard to see far in the tangle of bushes, trees, vines, and vegetation that weaved its carpet across this part of the world, but the afternoon rains isolated him as if he was in his own curtained world. It didn’t seem to him they were moving fast. The blurred figures of Selma and Victoria marked the path a few feet in front of him.

“Here!” a voice shouted from the left.

Jamal nearly bumped into Selma as the group stopped. Ahead, he could see George’s hand motioning them down. He squatted, raising his rifle.

“Clear, my friend!” called another voice.

“We can’t see anything in this rain.”

“A trail led this way. Whoever ran this way was part of the infidels we killed. They’re here somewhere.”

Jamal recognized the accents as Liberian, speaking that familiar clipped, singsong English used as the common language throughout this African nation.

A third voice replied, “Why don’t you two just tell them we’re out here and be done with it.”

The rain smothered a muffled grumble and the voices disappeared. They were looking for them. Jamal glanced ahead at George. Only a few hours ago they had been riding in an SUV heading to safety. Then, he had disliked this man. He was uncouth and whined about everything. The tart exchanges between Victoria and George had done little to convince Jamal the man was to be trusted, but here they were following him, depending on him to lead them to safety. Jamal looked back the way they came, expecting at any moment to see those chasing them jump out of the bushes and through the curtain of rain. It’s amazing, he thought, how George’s character changed when events shuffled the deck of leadership.

George reached over, gripped Victoria lightly by her shoulder, and turned her to the left. He nodded and gave her a slight push. Victoria pushed through the bramble along the edges of the trail and quickly disappeared from sight. George stared at
Jamal questionably and jerked his thumb toward the point where Victoria and Selma had disappeared.

Jamal scrambled forward to where George squatted. The man leaned down and said softly, “Boy, you stay with them. Keep going the same direction I pointed. The Centos River is out there. I hope that they’ve sent rescue. If they ain’t, then you get across it and make your way to Kingsville.” The sound of voices reached their ears. George paused and looked in the direction of the voices. The big man reached out and pushed Jamal, causing him to fall onto a knee. “Go, boy! I’ll be along.”

Jamal pulled himself up about the same time George gave him another shove, sending Jamal tumbling into the brambles, causing him to trip, and nearly fall. Ahead, he caught sight of Selma’s dress. They were only ten to fifteen feet ahead, but vines, interwoven among the larger vegetation and trees, created barriers upon barriers. The heavy rain hid the noise they were making as they scrambled away. He ran to catch them. His foot caught on a tree root across the path, tripping him. He fell, losing his grip on his rifle. It took a couple of seconds to recover the weapon. A couple of minutes later, Jamal caught up with them. His breath came in quick, deep gasps.

Gunfire rode over the noise of the rain. Shouts in one of the guttural African dialects—
Jamal had yet to figure out how to tell one dialect from another when they all sounded so much alike
.

Victoria dropped to her knees, pulling Selma to the ground with her. Jamal squatted on his haunches, his rifle pointed back the way they had come. They had stopped in a small clearing about six feet long and a couple feet wide. Bushes about six feet high surrounded them and from where they had entered the clearing, the leaves had closed, hiding the path.

Shouts, this time in English, but too garbled by the rainfall for him to understand. He could tell it wasn’t George shouting. Jamal had no idea if that was good or bad. If he heard George, then it meant the man was alive. If he didn’t, did it mean George was dead, hiding, or sneaking up on those bastards?

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped, and like a flash, the jungle reappeared, colors exploding around them. If he was lost before, the enormity of their situation
became even more apparent with the stopping of the rain. The late afternoon downpour had saved their lives. Jamal shook, realizing for a moment that if the rain had started later, those men would have found them as easily as George did. They could have stuck their guns into the bush and killed them without ever seeing who they were shooting.

The sound of running footsteps caused him to grip the rifle tighter. His finger was on the trigger. His shaking was causing the rifle to shake. Tears trickled along his cheeks, making him angry that he was so scared. Someone was crashing through the bushes toward them. Running, tripping, jumping up, and running again. Probably George, he hoped, hurrying to catch up with them, but he aimed his rifle where he thought George would appear, and tightened his finger on the trigger, telling himself not to shoot—not to shoot. He mumbled once, “Don’t shoot.”

Suddenly, an African burst through the curtain of vegetation, seeing Jamal at the same time as he saw him. The man raised his automatic weapon. Jamal pulled the trigger, never shutting his eyes. Behind him, Victoria shouted, drawing the attention of their attacker a fraction of a second before the two fired. Selma’s screams joined the sound of the two weapons. As the rifle fired, Jamal heard the sounds of another person running through the jungle toward them. The warm feel of urine ran down his wet pants leg.

CHAPTER 6

THE ENGINE NOISE OF THE FRENCH DAUPHIN HELICOPTER
forced Dick Holman, his Chief of Staff—Captain Leo Upmann, and the Amphibious Group Two intelligence officer, Mary Davidson, to put their heads close together, nearly touching, when they talked. Holman had one side of the earmuffs lifted so he could hear Upmann’s shouted words. The gray earmuffs reduced the decibel assault from the engines, but obscured conversation unless you read sign or lips. Holman raised his hand between him and his Chief of Staff. He slipped the earmuff back down, shut his eyes, and leaned his head against the heavy tarp that covered the inside of the French helicopter. Fifty miles wasn’t that far, but over the ocean it seemed forever. He failed to understand the French insistence on keeping a minimum separation of—
what did they say? Eighty kilometers?
Fifty miles wasn’t quite eighty kilometers, but the French were still new at aircraft carrier operations, and he attributed this distance between the battle groups to their fear of colliding with his ships. Must be true for their aircraft carriers as it was for his;
aircraft carriers maneuver, all others avoid.

Upmann was still bitching and moaning over orders received two days ago detaching the USS
Nassau,
USS
Belleau
Wood,
the auxiliary ship USS
Concord,
and their most modern warship the DD-21-class USS
Stribling.
Watching them turn back and disappear over the horizon had effectively reduced mission options for Holman’s amphibious task force. He still had the Marines on board his command ship, the amphibious carrier USS
Boxer.
For escorts, European Command left him the aging destroyer USS
Spruance,
the Aegis-class cruiser USS
Hue City,
and the even more ancient civilian-manned oiler USNS
Mispellion
. The
Mispellion
would probably fall apart if anyone ever sanded the rust off her.

Of course, Upmann wasn’t the only one upset over the unexpected reduction in force. Dick had gotten his ass in a sling over it. Twelve hours ago, he went over the head of the Air Force general commanding European Command. He had called the Chief of Naval Operations, who was also a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He had appealed to Admiral Gianti, and asked for his intervention. He should know after all these years that no good deed goes unpunished. But he had to try. If he didn’t, and something happened, he would fail in his job by not fighting for more ships, Marines, and firepower.

Dick shook his head slightly. His bosses could have left him with the more modern warships. By God, give him enough forces so he could respond to any mission creep Washington threw at him. What if he was forced to go into Liberia and conduct a combat evacuation? Granted, he still had 1200 Marines, and that was probably enough not only to liberate but conquer Liberia. The challenge wasn’t evacuating the Americans in this
gone-to-hell
country, but in finding all of them. The bulk of the American Embassy personnel had fled to Sierra Leone. He would have appreciated someone in authority telling him why they reduced the size of his force. Instead, the explanation they threw at him was that they only wanted to send what was needed for the mission.

The handset he used to talk with the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Gianti, was still warm when General Derek Scott, Deputy Commander, European Command, discovered the telephone call. It seemed hotter after he hung up. The Army deputy spoke as plainly as Holman recalled, but of course the Army had little use for small talk. The most
important part of the conversation hid the reason for the small U.S. force heading toward Liberia.

He wondered if General Scott even knew he had said it. It was right after the Army general finished chewing him out about
“phoning home”
instead of going through the proper chain of command, which was going to the European Command located in Germany. The Army deputy believed he had to remind Holman one more time. “You are now a Joint Task Force—Joint Task Force Liberia—under the command of General Sidney Shane. European Command; not Northern Command nor the Pentagon. Your orders are to evacuate Americans and any other friendly citizens from the civil war in Liberia, and while doing this mission, you are to avoid entanglement.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, General,” Dick had replied to the three-star deputy. “But until two days ago I had a force that could have taken Africa if I had been ordered. Today—”

“Today, Admiral, you have a force that is tailored to do the mission at hand, which is bring out our citizens, and at the same time not threaten American relations with our European allies.”

The last comment caused Dick to raise his eyebrows. “Sir, I don’t understand how rescuing our citizens and our allies’ citizens threaten America’s relationship with our European allies.”

After several seconds of silence, General Scott said, “France is especially concerned about our involvement in Africa. That being said, Admiral Holman, you’re not expected to understand the politics about this mission. Yours is but to do—”

“—and die. I know the quote, General, but if I’m to do this mission effectively, then I need to know everything that affects it. I don’t understand how rescuing American citizens affects anyone other than us. General, does the fact that a French Navy force is approaching us from the north have anything to do with your comments? We expect to rendezvous with them by noon tomorrow, and my intelligence officer tells me they have two carriers with them. You know I have none?”

There had been a pause on the other end; a pause so long that finally Dick had asked, “Are you still there, General.”

“Yeah, I’m still here. They’ve been in contact with you?”

“Of course. They’re our ally, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes. Most certainly. I was just surprised to hear they were coordinating with you. You know the Administration needs the French influence in the Middle East to ensure our Israeli-Palestine peace initiative works?”

“That’s like inviting your mother-in-law to settle an argument between you and your wife.”

“Are you coordinating operations with the French?”

“I didn’t say we were coordinating, General. When I found out they were heading our way, I contacted them. I assumed they were as concerned as we are about events in Liberia. And knowing the number of French citizens and military they have in the nearby Ivory Coast, I knew that they would be just as concerned about the civil war filtering over into it as we are. Admiral Colbert has invited me to visit the French aircraft carrier
Charles de Gaulle
. So, I intend to, and once we’ve worked out operation areas, maybe we’ll establish some sort of Coalition Wide Area Network—CWAN—so we can share data in a secure mode.”

After a few seconds ’pause, Deputy Commander, European Command had continued in an ominous tone. “Admiral, be careful. We don’t know why the French are sending such a large battle force down that way. But we are sure that they—the French government—are adamantly opposed to us ‘invading’—
their word not mine
—Liberia. They’ve been major political opponents over us going into Liberia, even raising the issue in Brussels at both NATO headquarters as well as the European Union Court.”

Dick had shook his head. “General, I’ve been invited to visit with Admiral Colbert. My mission is not to invade Liberia; just evacuate our citizens. I am sure Admiral Colbert understands that,” Holman said, and then after a short pause when the general didn’t jump in with an answer, he added, “Shit, General. Even a fresh lieutenant with a little salt water behind his ears can tell that with only three warships and one auxiliary vessel, we aren’t an invasion force. We are barely a rescue force. And if anything goes wrong, we’re going to be in deep
kempshi
.”
Kempshi
was a spicy Korean dish made
from cabbage and similar to sauerkraut, with the exception that it was fermented until nearly rancid.

“Exactly, Dick, and that is one of the reasons the Joint Chiefs have reduced the size of your force. You don’t need them for an evacuation. Different subject: Henri Colbert. I’ve met him, Dick,” the Deputy of European Command said. “He’s not a friend of the United States.”

Dick felt a push against his shoulder, bringing his thoughts back to where they were—on a French helicopter heading toward the French aircraft carrier
Charles de Gaulle
.

“Admiral,” Captain Mary Davidson said.

He mouthed the word “yes” over the noise.

She leaned forward, pulled the earpiece of the sound muff away from his right ear, and shouted, “Have you looked out the window?”

He shook his head and turned to share the small double-paned window with her. Below sailed the two aircraft carriers of the French Navy—the FN
Charles de Gaulle
and the FN
Richelieu,
surrounded by four cruisers, several destroyers, and a couple of smaller ships—probably coastal frigates. Damn! Made his own small force of four ships look like a coastal navy. Holman pressed his face closer to the concave-shaped window, trying to spot the oiler or supply ships that a battle group this size would need. After a few seconds, he pulled back. Colbert must have them behind the battle group, or they are on the other side of the helicopter. Logistics ships sailing far to the rear was a protective tactic for a battle group expecting to fight.

“Impressive!” he said as he pulled back.

“Too impressive,” Mary replied.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. The thing about intelligence officers was their propensity for seeing conspiracies in everything and everywhere. Sometimes, they were right. Most times, they just made their bosses paranoid.

“No amphibious ships, sir. If they’re here to evacuate their citizens or to go in and restore order, they would have amphibious units with them. Amphibious units loaded with French Marines, Army, or Foreign Legion elements.”

He turned back to the window. She was right. This Naval force was designed to fight a war at sea, though the airpower
the two French carriers brought could project power ashore. But you didn’t win land battles through air and naval power. You won them by putting armies and Marines ashore. Same with evacuations. You needed those grunts with their handheld weapons. He glanced at Upmann, who had listened to the exchange.

“Leo, your thoughts?” he shouted.

Upmann shook his head. “They don’t need to bring amphibious units when they have more than enough ground forces in Ivory Coast. All they have to do is motor across the border, drive up the coast or the main highway that runs across the center of Liberia, and
voila,
twenty-four hours later Liberia becomes a member of the francophone fan club.”

Holman turned back to Captain Davidson. “Mary, you hear that?”

She nodded. “Not all of it, but enough to get the gist.”

“What do you think?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

Upmann’s analysis satisfied him. He looked back through the window as the helicopter turned, watching the ships pass slowly across his field of vision. He pulled back when the helicopter steadied up on its approach course. Holman leaned back and shut his eyes. Not one oiler or supply ship or ammunition ship had passed beneath them during the turn. Where were they? Why weren’t they with the battle group? He twitched in his seat. Something made him uncomfortable about this French show of strength. Why would the French send so much power south in a crisis that was more of an American interest than theirs? Were they this concerned about their own people in the Ivory Coast?

IN WASHINGTON, WHILE HOLMAN AND HIS TWO DEPUTIES
made their approach to the French aircraft carrier
Charles De Gaulle,
the Secretary of Defense, Addison Maltby, had just hung up with the President’s National Security Advisor, Mattingly Elkhammer. Addison turned his chair around so he could look out across the north parking lot of the Pentagon toward Boundary Channel. After a few seconds, he nodded, resting his head on clasped hands. Addison hoped Mattingly
passed on to the President his recommendation to tell Admiral Holman what his rules of engagement were. Without rules of engagement, the decision to release weapons fell to the senior officer in command. While this Admiral Holman had a good reputation for keeping a cool head under fire, Addison had his doubts about this hidden strategy of keeping the man in the dark. He turned slightly so he could pick up the TOP SECRET folder on his desk. Since 9/11, the CIA had been a
“turning and burning”
organization, developing biographies and backgrounds on allies and enemies alike. He opened it and stared at the photograph of Admiral Henri Colbert. This French Navy officer had been specifically chosen to lead this French Naval force. Why? Everything in this profile showed a man who was hotheaded; never asked for nor accepted higher-authority guidance; and most of all, viewed America more as a threat to French hegemony than Islamic extremists.

That liberal juggernaut at State had managed to convince the President that turning back the bulk of the U.S. Naval force would show our European allies that the mission of Joint Task Force Liberia was strictly defensive. A noncombatant evacuation mission, not designed to widen the global war on terrorism. He shut the folder. True—Washington needed the French military and political influence to firm up a breakthrough to a peaceful resolution to the decades-old Israeli-Palestinian issue. If peace broke out in the volatile Middle East area, then it would isolate the radical Islamic movements in most of the Arab countries. It would also move America’s thirteenth year of the global war on terrorism closer to victory—if victory could ever be achieved. The buzzer broke through his reverie. Addison tossed the folder back on his desk, where sometime after he departed late tonight a security officer would
“ magically appear”
and retrieve it. The door opened. His executive aide stuck her head inside and announced the first of numerous meetings scheduled for today. Addison looked at his watch—seven
A
.
M
. Everything ran on time in the Pentagon and time was determined by him.