Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (22 page)

“I believe I have heard that she shoots better than she salutes.”

“I hope that’s true for all of them. Let’s take a look at the rest of the compound, Sergeant Major. We need to see how they’ve parked the vehicles. We don’t want them so close to the building that if they’re hit they’ll turn it into a firetrap, and we don’t want them so close to the fence they prevent us from defending the perimeter.”

“There’s not many,” Gentle said, pointing left of the building. “I had the men drive the smaller vehicles south into the jungle and hide them. That way if we have to make a run for it—”

“Our Army doesn’t run.”

“That’s true, General. But we don’t have our Army here. What we’ve got is a bunch of civilians looking to you—”

“And you.”

“—to turn the tide. You can see it in their faces. They believe that because you’re here, nothing can defeat us.”

“Don’t think I don’t know that. But what the two of us know, and probably most of these veterans can guess, is that we have little to defend ourselves with except guts, gumption, and a few weapons.”

Rounding the corner, Thomaston touched a nearby windowsill as they walked. The windows went completely around the building. Definitely built for show.

The same brick wall, chain-link fence, and razor-wire construction as at the front surrounded the quarter-acre lot behind the building. Thomaston counted five SUVs, a school bus, and five Silverado pickup trucks, along with several personal automobiles.

“Where are the other buses?”

Gentle shook his head. “Not enough room for them. I had them parked at the edge of the jungle and the distributor wires pulled so they couldn’t be used.”

“You’re right, Sergeant Major. I guess as long as we had them, we had a chance to make a run toward the border, but we both know that our only hope now is the Navy fleet headed this way.” He looked at his watch and his eyes cast to the south. “They should be off the coast.”

“Probably parked for lunch.”

Thomaston stopped and stared at the vehicles. Parked so close that to move any but those at the front would cause all of them to have to shift.

“How many militia do you have?”

“Thirty, General. When the two patrols return, that should raise our numbers back to thirty-six. We should also count the men and women who want to fight.”

“Oh, yes! They’re going to fight. They have their weapons and they’re going to have to use them. What we need is to disperse the militia among those who are untrained. When the fight starts, they need to understand they are to respond to our orders without question and without hesitation. Do you have a muster sheet of those inside?”

“No, sir.”

“Then make one, Sergeant Major. Have someone start a roster identifying everyone. Names, ages, and addresses. While you’re at it, get their next of kin.”

“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind me asking, General, what are we going to do with this list?”

“If we have to evacuate in a hurry, Sergeant Major, I want a master list with us so we’ll know who we have and who we are missing. Assign someone—a teenager—or better yet, get Marge Sweeney to do it and tell her we need it in alphabetical order. If anyone can manage that, she can. And she’ll keep it as accurate as she does our accounts at the store.” Thomaston paused for a moment. “Yeah, Marge can do it if she don’t lose those Coke-bottle glasses of hers.”

“And the bad part of this muster is it will help us track the dead and the wounded.”

Thomaston waved his hand as if encompassing the compound and the crisis. “All of this is new. To me, and to you,” he said, poking himself in the chest and then Gentle. “We were comfortable American expatriates used to conveniences, expecting an American way of life always to be there, and while we never admitted it, enjoying having the Africans fawn over us. Even here . . .” His thoughts faded off.

He looked up for a moment as if expecting to see aircraft crossing overhead, but only a hot sun filled the cloudless sky—not even a contrail disrupted the sea of blue. No aircraft! Usually you could always see a contrail or two as international flights crossed overhead. His eyes narrowed.

No satellites for their communications, no commercial flights visible, and no contact with the United States force that was headed their way. It was as if he and the others in Liberia had dropped off the map. Would the United States allow this large number of Americans to die without trying to rescue them? What if Admiral Holman has been ordered to turn around? It wasn’t something Thomaston wanted to think about right now. He reached up and pinched the top of his nose near his eyes, blinking several times. Africa made everyone appreciate air-conditioning. They always say that if you want something bad enough, that’s how you get it—
bad.

“General, you all right, sir?”

Thomaston looked at Gentle and shook his head. “No, Sergeant Major, I don’t think I am. I don’t think we are.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “If the enemy shows up in the next
hour, we’d stand a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping them. We have a lot to do.”

“Begging the general’s pardon, I think we are further along than you imagine.”

Thomaston punched him gently on the shoulder. “I would never argue with a sergeant major, and I do know we are where we are because of you, Craig.”

Tawela Johnson ran around the edge of the building, her M-16 across her chest at port arms.

“Here comes our one-woman army,” he said, causing the sergeant major to turn his head.

It always amazed Thomaston when he saw how a small woman like her carried a weapon. But then he recalled the number of women who worked for him during his career who were still marching when bigger, stronger men had fallen out. Of course, there were those lying alongside the road also. Upper body strength helped, but he truly believed tenacity was the real strength of a soldier.
Give me a person with tenacity over someone with intellect any time.

She stopped abruptly, shifted her weapon to her left hand, and saluted. “General, you better come out front, sir,” she said urgently, turning and motioning him to follow.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his pace picking up as he followed her.

“Well, sir . . .”

One of the militiamen, wearing sergeant stripes on crisp, sharp camouflages, appeared at the corner of the building. The beret sat atop a large Afro hairstyle. The sergeant saluted. “General, there’s some people out front who just drove up. You may want to talk to them, sir. They be kinda excited right now, but we calming them down. They from the east—
from Monrovia.
”

Thomaston glanced at the name tag—ROOSEVELT. He was good with names. Seldom forgot a name once he had seen it and pronounced it a couple of times. He thanked the sergeant as he and Gentle walked past. Sergeant Roosevelt, automobile mechanic, and Tawela Johnson, waitress and general worker at whatever job was available, fell in behind the two.

ABU ALHAUL LAID THE PAPER PLATE ON THE TABLE, WIPED
his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. The women provided good meals. Abu Alhaul patted his stomach and wiped his hands on the long white robe that reached to his ankle. He never ceased to amaze himself. He was a legend in his own mind. Pulling the water bowl nearer, Abu Alhaul splashed his hands in it, bringing a handful of water to his lips to wash the food particles from his beard and mustache. The near-worship by those around him was his due because he was empowered by Allah to interpret His word. They should watch, wait, and worship his every action. Their lives were his to give in the service of Allah, and he expected those who followed him to be ready to martyr their lives as he dictated. For he also believed their lives were his to take. He pushed himself up from the floor of the home they occupied. Mumar stood several inches taller. Abu Alhaul looked at the taller African, and knew he had it in his power to have the man taken outside and his legs chopped off above the ankles. Then the jet-black man would be the same height as him.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked, turning for a moment to Mumar Kabir, an ecstatic rush permeating his body. Abu Alhaul sucked in a deep breath—a sharp quick pain struck down his right and left sides. He quickly hid the slight grimace. Allah knew when to remind His followers of their mortality.

Taller and five years younger, Mumar Kabir stood slightly behind and to the left of Abu Alhaul. Mumar was always there. Even when Abu Alhaul would have preferred some solitude. The man acted fiercely loyal. He said the right things about gladly giving his life for him, but he was African and African loyalty, like the Afghanis’, ebbed and flowed with the moment. Abu Alhaul touched the dagger on his right side.

“Yes, Great One,” Mumar responded, looking in the same direction at the long line of armed pickup trucks. They had liberated several heavy machine guns from the Liberian Army camp in Monrovia.

The voice never indicated the level of mesmerized adoration that Abu Alhaul expected. He didn’t fully trust Mumar, but he needed an African lieutenant if he expected the Africans to serve the cause of chaos. Abu Alhaul smiled as Mumar muttered a short prayer to Allah for the ease with which they
had overthrown this heretic puppet government of the Great Satan. The way of Islam was set with challenges, but someday—
maybe after decades
—the world would become pure Islamic. Other religions twisted and spun Allah’s words to convince many that Islam was a heretic religion—a cult. They would perish along with the Jewish pigs who occupied the Islamic Holy City of Jerusalem. His was only one of many Islamic movements dedicated to bringing true believers into the fold and to die, like sacrificial sheep, in destroying those who failed to acknowledge the word of Allah. Abu Alhaul lowered his head to hide the slight smile he permitted himself. He was the word of Allah. He was one destined to pick and choose those who would martyr themselves in furtherance of Islam. The smile faded and he looked at Mumar Kabir.
And who better than to die in this cause than Africans? That was their destiny.

“Everything is nearly ready, Sheik,” Mumar said, his deep bass voice resonating within the close walls of the room.

Surveillance two months ago had told Abu Alhaul they would find Humvees, weapons, and Americans at this sore on Africa’s butt called Kingsville. Twenty kilometers from this small town where he and his commanders prepared for the advance waited the heretic Americans. Americans who had brought death, destruction, and disrespect to the Arab world. He glanced at Mumar. Arab name for an African.
How stupid the Africans were. They blamed the white man for slavery, when it was his own people—the Arabs—who’d fostered the practice, and still engaged it in some parts of the Middle East and Africa.

The Americans would die here in the land of their origin. Abu Alhaul reached forward and took another date from the bowl in front of him. Stability, educating the youth without religious influence, and this growing quality of life threatened the spread of radical Islam. The Americans were the ones doing it. The good thing for him was the jealousy and envy native Africans felt toward the Americans. It played into his hands. Even a second-rate mullah knows those two emotions cause people to rise in revolt. It made it easier to stir them to Jihad in furtherance of Islam. No, the Liberian experiment must die.

Africa’s sparse middle-age population kept the continent
ripe for chaos. The majority of the population was either over sixty or under thirty. Those demographic profiles accounted for over seventy-five percent of all Africans. Allah had truly blessed this continent as fertile ground for pure Islam by killing off most of the one group that could have controlled the youthful emotions of those under thirty. For Islamic radicalism to survive, it required what the West called failed states, and Liberia’s success threatened others by showing them the way out. This country needed to return to its former condition. To do that, Abu Alhaul must kill the Americans—the infidels of the Great Satan.

Three Islamic militiamen squatted alongside a second armed pickup truck, sticking on the side of the driver’s door a large green flag with the Arabic words ALLAH ALAKBAR written in white on it. From a distance, it looked like the Saudi Arabian flag.

“Mumar, we are truly honored today,” said Abu Alhaul. “We are witnessing a turning point in liberating our people who have fallen under the corrupt influence of Christianity. Across Africa, they will see how we met the enemy face-to-face and won victory. It will encourage them to take up arms and eradicate the scourge from their lands. They’ll recognize the greatness of Allah and understand my words as emanating from Allah’s own lips.” His voice rose in tempo as he launched into the familiar vision. A warped vision he deeply and passionately believed was right. A vision to ignite the continent while he still could, for time was his biggest foe now. Several of Abu Alhaul’s commanders mingled a few feet behind him. Near enough to hear, but at a respectful distance to allow their leader a small circle of privacy. Mumbles of approval merged with the sound of his words.

“We will destroy the infidels who have usurped Allah’s way and who wield an unjust power against the faithful,” Abu Alhaul went on. “Destroy those who have opened Africa’s borders to Islam’s foe.” Mumar’s eyes glistened. Abu Alhaul saw what he believed to be admiration in the man’s eyes, and wondered briefly if it was for show, or was the man truly sincere, for Mumar had heard the same speech repeatedly many times. “They will die also.

“I’m not sure which day it will be, Mumar,” Abu Alhaul
said softly. “But one of these days, in this hot month of August, will be known as the day of Allah’s wrath. The day when the faithful drove from its shores the heathen seeds of those who would corrupt the will of Allah.”

Abdo Almuhedge, the tall, dark Egyptian, approached from the direction of the convoy. The man smiled, raising his hand, palm outward, in a salute as he neared the two men, his gait wallowing from side to side as his heavy weight shifted with each step. The sound of rapid breathing was easily heard.

“Abu Alhaul, we are nearly ready,” Abdo gasped, bracing his left hand against a nearby tree while raising his right to touch his forehead. He looked down at his feet for a couple of seconds before forcing himself to stand up straight. He stuck his arms out to the side, and took a couple of deep breaths before jerking a small red bath towel from a pocket on the long, white flowing aba. He wiped his forehead. “Damn heat, my brother. We should be back in Egypt, relaxing in the coffee shops, and enjoying the breeze off the Nile.”