Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (30 page)

“Not with mortar fire. You know that. If they really want our vehicles, they’ll avoid hitting the parking area. The building is nothing to them. It’s just a reference point. Use some of the townsmen in back and build a defensive perimeter with those vehicles. It’ll give us a place to fall back if they break through. You get everyone out and into the center of that perimeter. Then organize covering fire if we fall back.” He paused for a moment. “We both know they’re going to break through. I’ll lead a fighting retreat and slow them up.”

“Sir, why don’t I do that? I mean—”

“Thanks, Sergeant Major, but you’re needed back there to hold the fort until the cavalry arrives.”

“You mean if anything happens to you.”

Thomaston nodded. “I would think, after all these years, I should be able to keep from being killed by a bunch of half-trained rabble. They may outnumber us—”

“Outnumber? Damn, General. Now you tell me,” Gentle said as he stood.

Thomaston watched for a moment as Gentle zigzagged in his run toward the building, the M-16 gripped tightly in the sergeant major’s left hand.

Just as suddenly as it began, the gunfire stopped. Thomaston watched as the townsmen and militia defending the west wall lowered their weapons. From the front door of the armory two women appeared, lugging two boxes of M-16 magazines down the steps. One turned to the right side of the gate, while the other hurried to the other side.

Samson Roosevelt stood on top of the planks braced over a couple of rain barrels. The young African-American with his out-of-date Afro hairstyle looked across the torn-up field in front of the armory at the general. “They’re stopping, sir. They’re turning back toward the main road.” He grinned, lifting his M-16 and shaking it in the air a few times. “Whoa, man!” Roosevelt inhaled deeply several times, shouting “Whoa man!” with each exhale. The man flopped down on the planks, shaking his head.

Thomaston hustled to where Roosevelt stood and pulled himself up. The young man reached down and helped the general the last few inches.

“Where’s Tawela, Samson?”

Roosevelt looked up at Thomaston, bit his lower lip, and shook his head a couple of times. “Sorry, General, but she went and got herself shot.” He pointed toward the rear of the armory building. “I think she’s back there. That’s where I saw a couple of men carrying her.”

Thomaston nodded, then looked over the top of the wall. The main road, about four hundred yards away, crossed the entrance to the armory like a T. A hodgepodge collection of armed pickup trucks dotted the open field, reaching back to the main force of rebel vehicles parked along the shoulder. The pickup trucks had machine guns mounted on the cabs. Thomaston picked up his binoculars and peered through them—
older version of the modern .50-caliber machine gun,
but they’d still kill you.
When he was wounded in Egypt, he didn’t ask what type of bullet it was. From the gunfire laid down by the enemy and the return fire his force mounted, he expected to see more than the few bodies he did between the wall and the first line of pickup trucks. He swept the opposing force with the binoculars, inwardly delighted at their overconfidence in not guarding their numbers and their disposition. His people were outnumbered, but the enemy sure as hell had no concept of a military operation. To his advantage, they had no way of knowing exactly how many people—
fighters—
he had. Information was power, and the ragtag rebel army out there was providing him with more than they could imagine. Unfortunately, not all the information in the world would help if he didn’t have the forces or time to take advantage of it, but it might allow his people to hold out long enough for those slow-moving Navy folk to arrive.
Damn, Marines! It’s time to live up to your self-made nine-one-one image.

To the enemy’s advantage, they knew he only had small arms—basic infantry—to defend his position.

He continued his sweep of the opposing force, soaking up what he saw. It had been an hour since the attack had begun, and this was the first opportunity for him to see the forces arraigned against them. He abruptly found what he was looking for. It was located along the highway, three vehicles down from the lead SUV. The enemy vehicles along the highway pointed south, the direction they were traveling when they arrived. He focused the lens, brining the load vehicle closer. This was the command vehicle where this self-made Abu Alhaul commanded the attack. The fact that small groups of armed men were converging on the command vehicle confirmed his observation. Damn, what he wouldn’t give for an artillery piece or a mortar and a damn good artilleryman right now. He could end this quickly. Most of those approaching were obviously Africans, but intermixed among them were the brown-skinned Arabs identified by headdresses and long flowing robes.

He lowered the binoculars and scanned the open ground from right to left. Nothing indicated they were regrouping or shifting forces to the rear of the armory. Not that he could see.
Maybe all this action was a subterfuge to draw attention away from the east wall in the rear.

Thomaston glanced toward the pockmarked building. Every window gone. The eastern corner partially blown away by a mortar shell. He took a deep breath, pulled the handkerchief from his rear pocket, and wiped sweat from his forehead. At least, he had the venerable Gentle in the rear. Without a sense of arrogance, Thomaston knew the two of them were the keys for holding out until rescue arrived. He looked at his watch. Nearly two hours since the African had appeared at the front gate demanding surrender. Thomaston had offered the same surrender opportunity to the African, slightly amused when the man seemed startled by the suggestion. The African, tall, powerfully built, had calmly threatened to kill everyone in the armory unless they surrendered. The threat didn’t scare Thomaston—it pissed him off. What the threat told him was the man was one of the leaders. Only one of the leaders could have the authority to make such a threat. A lesser-ranked individual would have hightailed it back to the leadership for further instructions. Thomaston thought for a moment about shooting him—right then at the front gate.

He would have died in the gunfire, but by God, it would have been one less leader against them. This ragtag, dangerous bunch of Africans and Arabs were held together only by the charisma of this religious fanatic. He wondered briefly if the African he had talked to had been this Abu Alhaul.

This shouldn’t be happening in the twenty-first century! This was a scene typical of over two hundred years of history in the Dark Continent. Winston Churchill was right when he said that those who ignored history were doomed to repeat it.

He watched the movements along the road and in the town as his mind recalled the initial encounter. Nearly an hour after the surrender demand, scattered gunfire of opportunity peppered the armory. Then, almost on the hour, pickup trucks had surged toward the wall, firing heavy machine guns across the top, wounding several townspeople, before the vehicles had scurried back toward the highway. He tweaked the binoculars. The highway was their main defensive line. Thirty minutes ago had been the heaviest, when the attackers committed ground forces forward supported by the pickups. It was only
through the will and tenacity of the defenders that they had repelled the first attack. If he was in Abu Alhaul’s shoes, what would he do?

Around the enemy command vehicle, something similar to an American council of colonels was probably advising Abu Alhaul on the next move. He had seen men such as Abu Alhaul in other Third World armies—the North African crusade came easily to mind. He had also seen petty tyrants in his own Army who were soon weeded out before they made lieutenant colonel. Every now and then, one of them made colonel or even higher, but they soon departed from active duty.

If only he could communicate with the outside. If only he had one tank or one APC. If only he had a hundred real soldiers or National Guardsmen.
If
was a big word and a useless conjecture in a fight. A soldier’s entire attention was focused on combat, hoping and praying he or she never reached the point where worrying about conserving ammunition affected their fight. When that point arrived, it became the enemy’s game. You fought for the moment, and prayed in the real Army that this new concept of focused logistics worked. He always wondered if translating the business concept of
“just in time”
delivery to
“focused logistics”
was something that would work when bullets, bombs, and body parts filled the air.

“General,” Gentle said from behind him.

“Yes.”

“Everyone’s out of the building and in the vehicle park, sir.”

The whistling of another mortar round drowned out Gentle’s last few words. Along the wall, defenders dropped, burying their heads in their arms. He glanced up at the sky. This one was going to pass over the wall. He looked at the building.

The top of the building exploded as the shell hit, blowing roofing tiles and shattered bricks into the air. Another mortar followed.

“That mortar is going to play hell with us. Craig, tell everyone in the park to stay down.”

Gentle nodded and took off running, staying close to the side of the wall. Thomaston squatted with his back against the bricks. He was pleased to see Roosevelt rise and peer over the wall with his M-16 pointed forward. The man had obviously
figured out how to tell the path of a mortar round from the whistle . . . or maybe he hadn’t.

“YOU MUST BE QUIET, ASRAF,” MUMAR FLARED. WHY DID
Abdo have the right to choose for this mission? He was in charge.

“Mumar, you carry this machine gun. You fight your way through the brush. You try not to trip, and then you can tell
me to be quiet
, my kaffir countryman,” Asraf replied menacingly.

“And I must carry this mortar while Nakolimia carries the shells. They are exceedingly heavy,” the man stumbling behind Asraf added.

Mumar’s eyebrows wrinkled as he concentrated for a couple of seconds, trying to recall the man’s name. His task—assigned by Abu Alhaul—was to place the mortar on the top of the hill overlooking the south wall of the armory. The man had actually touched him on the shoulder, looked him in the eye, and told him how important this mission was. Mumar’s upper lip curled. First, it was the Arabs. Then, it was the white man. Then, the Chinese, and now it was the Arabs again. Someday he would rid his continent of these outsiders. This he vowed. Like most Africans, Mumar thought of Africa as the land below the Sahara. He turned and continued his trek up the hill, ignoring the low grumbling behind him.

He touched a small short-wave radio clipped to side of his khaki belt. They had found these nice things in Monrovia. They only worked a few miles. He turned the speaker down, but not so low he couldn’t hear the battle commands for the ongoing attack on the armory. Every time someone spoke, a slight click followed by a burst of static erupted before the voices smoothed out the transmission. He wanted to listen to the main attack. Every time he heard another group attacking the American armory, he resented marching uphill. If he had been down there, he would already be inside the armory. Many heads would be strewn around where he stood and everyone would know what a great fighter and leader he was.

He perversely hoped Abu Alhaul’s plan to overrun the armory took long enough for
him
to prove his worth. Not for
Abu Alhaul, but for the African foot soldiers who gave their blood for a fight that would never benefit the Africans. When he set this mortar up and lobbed the six shells they carried into the rear of the south wall defenders, he would be a hero. Not to the Arabs, but to Africans. This was important. His only warning from Abu Alhaul was to avoid hitting the vehicles. Mumar knew he must prove his worth if he ever hoped to lead his brothers to freedom, for in Africa only the strong and merciless rose to power. Freedom from the Arabs and freedom from the white man.

Bushes crackled as someone fell behind him. A limb shot forward, whipping across his naked legs and the bottom of his khaki shorts, drawing a short yelp from him.

“Damn you, Mumar!” Asraf shouted.

Unseen, Mumar drew his pistol and turned slightly. He held the weapon alongside his right leg, pointing toward the ground. The dense bushes hid the pistol from view. His AK-47 hung by its strap from his left shoulder.

Asraf lay spread-eagled across the M-50 machine gun. The big man’s hands slipped as he attempted to push himself up. “I shall kill you for this. You carry nothing, but walk ahead as if you are better than us.” He grabbed a nearby small tree trunk and pulled himself up. Then, still spitting venomous insults at Mumar, Asraf reached down with his right hand and lifted the M-50 by the stock, causing the barrel to sink a couple of inches into the dark humus that made up the rain forest floor. “Or maybe I will just whip you and make you our mule. What do you think, Ougalie? What do you think, Nakolimia?” He glanced back at the two smaller men, who set their loads down on the widening small animal path they were following.

Ougalie, that was the name of the man from Sierra Leone. Ougalie was one of many who were not Liberian. Ougalie spoke Bassa, a regional dialect also prevalent in the Grand Bassa, Rivercress, and Montserrado counties of Liberia.

“It would be fun to see the tall giraffe carry the mortar. Maybe we could tie the shells to him and see how far he could walk,” Ougalie offered.

Mumar looked past the two men to the third, Nakolimia. The Liberian rebel from the town of Zorzor was silent, though his eyes shifted constantly following the words.

“Asraf, I am in charge. You will carry the machine gun. You, Ougalie, will carry the mortar, and Nakolimia will take up the satchel with the shells. We will continue,” he commanded, his voice low, steady, and more controlled than he thought possible. “And you will keep quiet so the enemy won’t hear us moving behind them.”

“And how will they hear? Will a clap of thunder ring out across the forests”—Asraf clapped his hands once—“and say,
’Look here, Americans, there are three men behind you’
?”

“They may have spies or patrols to warn them,” Mumar offered, aware of the weak argument. “Some are smart enough to know how to fight, not how to shout louder to hide their own stupidity.”