Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (16 page)

“General,” Tawela said as she stopped in front of him. “Am I glad I found you.”

“Didn’t know I was lost.”

She smiled.
A face that launched a thousand ships,
thought Thomaston.

“Oh, General, you weren’t lost. I saw you when I came around the building.” She shook her head back and forth, grinning, as she handed him the paper. “Beaucoup said get this to you fast.”

Thomaston read the handwritten note.

“He got contact with the Navy,” she said, “but sunspot activity broke it up after he told them we were running toward Ivory Coast. I want to—”

“I prefer to think of it as evacuating to the Ivory Coast,” said Thomaston

“Running ain’t a word in my dictionary either,” Craig Gentle added.

“—go if you’re sending a patrol to the border,” Tawela finished.

Both Thomaston and Gentle looked at her. She was attractive in a boyish way. Just tall enough to keep the M-16’s barrel from knocking against her calves, though the gun hit everywhere else on her body. Thomaston shut one eye, touched his chin for moment, and looked at her. If she could just keep quiet . . .

Gentle faced Thomaston. “Sir, what are your orders?”

Behind them, a car horn interrupted their decision. A Land Rover came speeding into the center of the town, its brakes squealing as the driver slammed down on them. The vehicle slid sideways and the doors burst open with four men inside stepping out quickly. The movement of Gentle, unslinging his weapon, was not lost on Thomaston. He had his pistol half out of the holster before he realized it.

It was Edward Jones and the three sent to the Ivory Coast. They were supposed to go to the American Embassy in Abidjan. Though Yamoussoukro was the official capital of Ivory Coast, and had been since the early 1980’s, Abidjan, located on the coast, remained the administrative center for the former French colony. The U.S., like other countries, had its embassy in Abidjan.

“Edward, you’re back early,” Thomaston said moments later when the men made their way to him. He reached forward and shook the man’s hand. Edward Jones was as dark as most native Africans. Thomaston had used Edward earlier when they first arrived to go places most African-Americans couldn’t because of their lighter skin. Edward was one of the original members of Thomaston’s group.

“Sir, we got problems,” Jones said as they shook.

“Oh, you are right about that, Edward. We got all kinds of problems, and one of them seems to be that you are back too early to have made it to the American Embassy. Considering everything, you shouldn’t be back here until late tomorrow at the earliest. What happened?”

“They wouldn’t let us cross the border.”

“Who wouldn’t and why? I don’t understand.”

“They have closed the border, General, because of the civil war here, and they aren’t going to let anyone cross. The Ivory Coast Army sergeant at the border post said they had orders to shoot anyone who tried to cross.”

“Why are they doing this?” Tawela asked. “We’re Americans. How can they stop us from going to our own embassy?”

Without looking at her, Thomaston reached out and touched the girl briefly on her shoulder. She stopped talking.

“I don’t think it was the Ivornians who’re doing it,” said Jones. “About a hundred feet behind them, I saw French Foreign Legionnaires. I shouted, but they acted as if they didn’t hear me. But they didn’t mind strutting around with their weapons for us to see.”

“Well, it ain’t their country,” Tawela said, then quickly covered her mouth when Thomaston frowned at her.

Don’t tell them that,” Gentile said. “Even when they set Ivory Coast free, the French kept their Foreign Legion there. They continue to rotate career Army units to make sure the Ivory Coast doesn’t—”

“Did you tell them you were Americans?”

“Yes, sir, General. They said we were Liberians and Liberians needed to stay on their side of the border.”

“Did you show them your passports?”

“Sir, they wouldn’t even look at them. The more I tried to explain that we wanted to talk with the American Embassy, the more I got this Ivornian look as if they had forgotten how to speak English.”

“Kind of like being in Paris,” Gentle mumbled.

Several seconds of silence passed. Tawela broke the spell. “Well, let’s just bolt through the border. Look at all the weapons we got.” She pointed the M-16 up, holding it with both hands. “We just show up, hold them hostage long enough to—”

Edward shook his head. “Won’t work. Not just the French Foreign Legion sitting there with automatic weapons. They’ve at least one tank and a couple of armored personnel carriers with machine guns.” He waved his hand toward the general,
his face an expression of exasperation. “General, they even had a command vehicle there bristling with antennas and all kinds of communications shit. If we try to fight our way through, even if they don’t mow us down at the border, with the communications they have, backup forces will finish the job.”

“Maybe Beaucoup can contact the embassy and tell them what happened?” one of the men with Edward asked.

“Which brings to mind, Edward; why didn’t you call and let us know what was going on? You got a radio in your car.”

“We do, General, and that radio went ‘tits-up’—sorry, Tawela—about ten klicks from the border.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head angrily. “They wouldn’t even let me use the telephone in their guard shack. I told them I wanted to call back here inside Liberia. I thought that if they bought that and I was able to use their telephone, I would call the embassy and have them clean up the border-crossing issue.”

“Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. Cellular telephones are about the only things that work in Africa.”

Gentle looked at Edward. “Did you try your cell phone?”

The man nodded. “Of course I did. They aren’t working. Either the antennas are down or someone’s jamming the signals.”

Thomaston nodded and looked south. Their options had narrowed. He took a pen from his shirt pocket, along with the message Tawela had brought. He turned it over and scribbled something. “Edward, you go with Tawela and help Beaucoup. I want him to contact the embassy in Abidjan.” He handed the paper to Edward. “Here is the name of the individual in the embassy who he needs to contact and explain the situation to.” Their eyes met. Both understood what the individual represented. “He may be able to influence those State Department outcasts who worked so hard and diligently to be awarded with a twilight tour to Africa,” Thomaston said with sarcasm.

Edward took the paper from Thomaston and with Tawela leading the way, the two of them took off running toward the radio shack, Tawela leaving the older, slower man behind.

Gentle turned to the other three men. “Go draw your weapons. Should be enough to go around,” he said, pointing to the
dwindling queue passing through the armory gates.

Thomaston raised his hand and pointed briefly to the south. “Looks as if we have two choices, Sergeant Major. One, march to the sea through that jungle, swamp, and rain forest, or”—he pointed to the armory—“two, take cover in the armory until the embassy clears this up or the Navy arrives.”

Gentle looked south and shook his head. “Oh, sir, you do so have a way with making a soldier’s day. South is not going to be fun. It’s overgrown, lots of swamps—mosquitoes that you need a shotgun to kill—and no way a car or a truck—much less one of those buses—can make it. If we go south, then we walk.”

Thomaston bit his lower lip. “I know,” he mumbled. “But it’s either escape to the sea and hope the United States Navy and Marines are there waiting, or stay here and fight off
God knows how many rebels or terrorists or Islamic fanatics
—whatever you want to call them.”

“What about Nathan, sir? He’s a member of our original group.”

The “group” consisted of nine men who knew the source of the weapons and where most of the money used to support Kingsville originated. The man was not referring to the African-Americans who had followed him to Liberia.

“It doesn’t change anything, Craig. Either Nathan and his group have survived and will get here eventually, or they didn’t. We knew when we planned to bolt toward Ivory Coast we were leaving any survivors stranded. If anyone can make it, it’ll be Nathan. He’s got the smarts, the training, and the tenacity to make it.”

Thomaston turned toward the north. “We have patrols out. We already know rebels are heading our way, following the main highway north of us.” He looked west, over the community center. The sunglasses cut through the glare of the sun. “We need to have an idea of the size and direction of those enemy forces, Craig. I don’t want to send you.”

“They’d know real quick if we went south, you know.”

“Or they’re going to know we have taken refuge in the armory. Either way, we’re the ones lacking choice.”

“Tawela’s idea about busting through the border—”

“Oh, it’d work, Craig. We’d bust through, we’d lose some
to the firefight, and then have to hope that the embassy steps in before the Ivornians massacre the rest of us.”

“The rebels have aircraft.”

“We haven’t seen any aircraft since that first day. To them, we still have surface-to-air missiles. That surface-to-air missile you fired may have convinced the remnants of the Liberian Air Force to stay out of this. Besides, once into the thick of the rain forests and jungles to the south, there is no way aircraft can find us. At least, their aircraft with their technology.”

“If we go south, they’ll find us, General. And if the Navy arrives and we are in the middle of that mess”—Gentle jerked his thumb toward the wall of jungle that ran along the southern edge of the town—“they’ll never find us. Plus, we will lose many just for no other reason than they’re unable to keep up.”

Thomaston thought for a moment. “Then we fight. Start moving everyone into the armory.” He looked at the armory east of the town. A vision of the Alamo came to mind. Beaucoup should have communications with the Navy amphibious task force moving toward them, but he didn’t. Why in the hell haven’t they heard anything? he wondered. Damn! Blind. Never knew this was what a commander without information felt, and that worried him more than knowing the small group of refugees coming from Monrovia had been ambushed.

The difference between victory and defeat was which commander had the better information or intelligence. It amazed him how blind and helpless he was after being used to the huge information architecture the U.S. military carried into battle. He never realized it was there when they were fighting, but he sure as hell missed it now that he didn’t have it.

“I could take a patrol west and see what the situation is like that way,” said Gentle.

“And check on Nathan while you’re doing it?”

“Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

Thomaston nodded with a pained expression. “Sergeant Major, no one’s going.”

“But—”

Thomaston shook his head. “They’re either dead, dying, or working their way here. The rationale earlier today remains the same. Nathan is a smart street fighter. He will either get his people here, or there are no people to make it.”

Gentle opened his mouth to object, then shut it. “Yes, sir, I know. But I don’t like thinking about it.”

Thomaston, smiling weakly, reached out and touched Gentle briefly on the shoulder. “Old friend, I don’t think we have much choice. Move everyone into the armory and hope the Navy-Marine Corps team does what they say they do best—project power from the sea. We need you. I need you.”

Sounds of running feet and heavy breathing caused them to look over their shoulders. Tawela, wearing a backpack, her M-16 cradled in her arms, ran toward them. Thomaston grimaced at the sight. Where in the hell did that oversized helmet come from? If she tripped, it would take both of them to unravel her from the weapon and everything she was carrying. A few seconds later, Tawela stopped in front of them, rested the butt of the M-16 on the ground, and put her free hand against her chest. “Can’t believe I’m out of breath,” she gasped. The helmet dropped, coming to rest against her nose. She pushed it back up.

“Can’t believe you made it down that hill without killing yourself,” Gentle mumbled.

“Good news, I hope?” Thomaston asked.

Picking up her M-16, she nodded. “It sure is. Mr. Jones and Mr. Beaucoup were talking, and they said you’re gonna send Major Gentle to rescue the Monrovia bunch.”

“It’s Sergeant Major, not Major,” Gentle corrected.

“Whatever.” She held up her hand petulantly at Gentle and continued to stare at Thomaston. “So, when do we leave?”

Thomaston looked at Gentle and slapped him on the back. “You answer the young lady’s questions. I am sure this leadership challenge is somewhere in your ample file cabinet of solutions, Sergeant Major.”

Gentle’s narrowed eyes never left the young woman in front of him. “Yes, sir,” he said curtly, saluting retired Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston.

Thomaston turned and quickly left the two, heading down to where the people of Kingsville prepared to evacuate the town. He bit his lower lip and lowered his head. He had always been told never to play poker for high stakes because he had a face that told everything. If that was so, then right now the word
“worried”
must be embossed across his forehead.

A clap of thunder caused everyone to look up just as the leading wave of afternoon rain splashed across the landscape. Within seconds, Thomaston along with everyone else was soaked. Some ducked into their vehicles, while others ran for the porches of the nearby buildings. He noticed Gentle and Tawela were running up the stairs to the community center. Some remained where they were, stacking supplies into the pickup trucks of the convoy. At least it would be easy to move everyone and everything into the armory.

Thomaston took a deep breath, straightened, and made sure the flap across his pistol was buttoned. Time to tell them of the change of plans. He looked south, trying to see the wall of jungle growth that marked the edge of the town, but the heavy rain blocked his vision. All he could see was a smear of green where the jungle formed an impenetrable barrier trapping them in Kingsville. He hoped he’d made the right choice.