Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (23 page)
Abu Alhaul spit. “Egypt! A land that once was the home of everything we hold dear and now is but a lackey of the Americans!”
“We could always be angry while we drank our coffee.”
“It is a hot day, Abdo,” Abu Alhaul said, emotionless, his eyes narrowed at the overweight Egyptian. “You should lose some weight before it kills you, my brother.”
Neither saw the exchange of glances among several of the Africans and Mumar.
Abdo nodded, running the cotton terry cloth across his face again. It was a futile effort. No sooner did he wipe away the heavy perspiration than fresh rivulets of sweat leaped forward to join the river soaking the neck and shoulders of the Arabic robe. “In this heat, my brother, I will sweat off the pounds.” He laughed. “Of course, Allah willing, we will be back in Egypt and once again feel the cool of the Nile breeze upon our cheeks.”
Abu Alhaul shook his head. “We have a long road ahead to travel before Allah will permit us to rest.”
“You’re my brother. I followed you when we were children, and you know I’ll be with you when we are old. I would just like for us to grow old together in Egypt. If we stay here
much longer, your younger brother will have a neck the size of a pencil and a body of a Saharan jackal.” He pointed at Mumar. “In a few weeks, I will be as thin as Mumar.”
Abdo fumbled, awkwardly jamming the towel back into his pocket before he continued. “I have good news, Abu Alhaul. We now have ammunition. The trucks brought it from our base across the border. Several of the captured machine guns are mounted on the pickup trucks. This will give us momentum and firepower for wiping the infidels from the land.” He raised his arm, twirling the fingers in the air for a few moments before dropping the arm back to his side. “Our patrol says the Americans in Kingsville have an armory with many great and wonderful weapons that we can use.”
“If they do, it will delay our overrunning them, killing them, and sending their spirits to Allah as an offering of strength.”
“The schools have begun,” Abdo offered, ignoring his brother’s comment.
“Good!” Abu Alhaul exclaimed. He stretched out his arms, encompassing the scene in front of him. “All of us are but a twinkle in Allah’s eye. Our lives are like so many grains of sand in the desert. We are born, we fight, and we die. Even the pickup trucks we arm are only good for a short time. The real weapon to bring Allah’s earth into spiritual righteousness is the schools—the madrassas. It is in these religious schools future warriors and martyrs for Islam are molded. For as we know from Muhammad’s teachings, this life is a series of devastating horrors in which we fight for the right to die in a holy cause. For to die in this holy cause sends us directly to Allah’s arms and the pleasures and rewards for dying in the furtherance of his word.”
Mumar’s eyes narrowed as he listened to Abu Alhaul continue to discuss educating children to believe that martyrdom was the path of all true believers.
When Abu Alhaul finished his five-minute lecture on education, Abdo ran the terry cloth across his face again and grinned. “Abu Alhaul, my brother, what good words. Meanwhile, I’ll wait for one of those martyrs to come to me in a vivid dream and confirm the seventy-two virgins.”
Abu Alhaul smiled. “Abdo, why do I put up with such a disbeliever?”
Abdo reached forward and clasped Abu Alhaul on both shoulders. He pulled his brother close and whispered in his ear, “Because we’re brothers. You look around and see these lackeys who say they follow you, but in your heart, we both know that regardless of what happens, I will always be here to protect and love you, my brother.”
Mumar cleared his throat, drawing the attention of Abu Alhaul and Abdo. Abdo released his brother and stepped back.
“My apologies, Alsheik,” Mumar said. “You asked I remind you about the new arrivals.”
The smile left Abu Alhaul’s face. Mumar was right. Abdo was a pleasant distraction. Many believed the familiarity of Abdo calling Abu Alhaul brother was heretical. The truth was that Abdo was truly his brother. They had been two of eight children of an Egyptian mason who had worked hard to send his two male children to the Islamic madrassa. It was there where Abu Alhaul developed his belief that he was a chosen one of Allah. In private, Abdo was even more sarcastic about some of the tenets of Islam, but in the end, they were of the same blood. Abdo had followed him in Holy Jihad to Afghanistan and to here. He might moan continuously about the climate, but Abdo would forever remain loyal, for nothing was stronger than blood. No, Abdo would remain. But Mumar . . .
TWO HOURS LATER, ABU ALHAUL TURNED TO THE PEOPLE
around him.
“Okay,” Abu Alhaul said. “Get the ammunition and people loaded on the trucks. It’s time to take Allah’s word to the American infidels.”
“And the women and children?”
Abu Alhaul turned slowly until his dark eyes fixed upon Mumar’s gaze. “They die also.”
“Yes, Alsheik, but if we keep some, we can sell them.”
Abu Alhaul slapped Mumar hard. The slap caused the low-level conversation behind him to stop abruptly. The African grabbed his cheek and stepped back. His eyes blazed at the Arab religious leader.
“Listen to me, Mumar,” Abu Alhaul said, his voice threatening. “No one lives. To allow even one child to live means leaving the seed of war to grow; the seed of youth to flourish; and when it reaches maturity, it will come after you. It will come to overthrow Allah’s righteousness and glory. The Americans must be eradicated thoroughly. Do you understand?”
Mumar nodded. He brought his hand away from his cheek and fought the urge to turn away. He feared what Abu Alhaul would do if he angered him too much. He had seen Abu Alhaul reach up, jerk the hair of a man backward, and slice the throat cleanly from side to side. Then while the man was dying, Abu Alhaul had slowly sawed the knife back and forth, cutting the man’s head off even as he lived. Mumar took a couple of steps backward.
“Of course you are sorry, my friend,” Abu Alhaul said. “Just remember we’re here for the glory of Allah; not for the glory of money.”
“Yes, I apologize,” Mumar said, but Abu Alhaul saw the words were not reflected in the eyes.
“Money does help, though,” Abdo said softly, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
The commanders standing behind Abu Alhaul tensed, expecting the leader to attack Abdo also.
Abu Alhaul smiled. “And that is another job for you, Abdo. You run the money and the supplies. You leave the victories to me, my fellow commanders”—he swept his left hand back toward the group behind him—“and Mumar, my African disciple.” Abu Alhaul faced the African again, reached forward, and pulled the shaking man to him, whereupon he embraced the taller, more powerful Mumar for several seconds before releasing him. A slight pain shot down his left arm.
“Now, go, Abdo. We must move out.”
Abdo took a deep breath, looked down at the trucks, and the armed men milling about them. “Yes, my brother. At least it is downhill.”
“The rest of you tend to your men. Tell them to prepare to meet Allah’s glory.”
He waited a minute for them to leave before he picked up his AK-47 from where it leaned against a tree.
ABU ALHAUL GLANCED AT THE BODIES SWINGING ON THE
poles, and a vision of his own body hanging similarly crossed his thoughts. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled the prescription bottle out, took out a pill, and slipped it under his tongue. Time was the enemy.
The pain in his chest diminished, and after several seconds disappeared completely. He opened his eyes, took a step forward, and when the pain failed to return, confidently walked along the long line of tables. Discarded plates with half-eaten food littered the tables and the ground alongside them. Near the heathen church, a group of young children played tag as their mothers stood under a nearby cork tree, fanning and talking among themselves.
Tonight, at midnight, they would leave this small town. A small group would stay behind to guard against an American or Liberian force coming from Monrovia. Once he had captured Kingsville, he would prepare for the second phase of the plan. The ship should be in Abidjan within the next seven days. Then, he would take the battle to the Great Satan itself while they wrung their hands, rattled their military swords, and sought to display his head on a stake. Little knowing, while they focused on Liberia and the American dead here, what was coming their way. He grinned at the thought, and muttered a short prayer of thanks to Allah.
Abu Alhaul watched as Abdo eased himself down on the ground to sit with his huge legs splayed before him. His brother was watching someone working underneath one of the trucks. Abu would be lost without his brother. Abdo never wrote anything down, for he never forgot anything. If only other members of his staff were as efficient—and as loyal. Mumar hated Abdo. He could tell by how the African reacted to Abdo’s irreverent comments. He glanced over at the African lieutenant, who was marching in the other direction with an entourage of Africans accompanying him. He would have to watch Mumar. He was becoming too strong a leader of the Africans. They must never forget that Arabs led them, for who else could truly interpret the words of Muhammad?
Four men appeared between two trucks at the end of the
parked convoy. Both trucks had M-50’s mounted on their cabs, like the pickup Abdo had sent earlier today on a patrol. They had received only one report from the radio in the truck, and it was more fawning than providing information. Without satellite communications, the radios were limited to ground range, so reports from them depended on the patrol keeping within range of the main body. Even the cell phones were useless.
He reached into his shirt pocket, brought out another small white tablet, and slipped it under his tongue. Three of these tablets in less than an hour. He needed to rest, to restore his strength. He was sure Abdo knew the seriousness of his condition, but he also knew his brother would never say anything to the others. As he looked at the back of his brother’s head, Abdo turned, saw him, and lifted his hand. No leader could ask for a more loyal follower. No brother could ask for more love from another brother.
Within the next two days, they would kill the Americans in Kingsville. Abu Alhaul had no worries about them escaping to Ivory Coast. His spies had told him the Ivornians, by order of their French masters, had closed the border. This was but a diversion. A pleasant diversion, much like a magician trapping the audience’s attention on his right hand while his left hand accomplishes the act. Even if he failed to destroy Kingsville and all who live there, the other plan would continue. Abdo would see to that. A plan that would keep the Islamic revolutionary wheels alive, while the West worried about the next catastrophic act of terrorism.
REAR ADMIRAL DICK HOLMAN LOWERED HIS BINOCULARS.
“How many grenades has
Spruance
’s helicopter dropped?”
“Three, sir. One every fifteen minutes, but I don’t think that submarine has any intention of surfacing.”
He shook his head. “Leo, it’s either Russian or French. If it was British, we would have known about it, and if it was ours, it wouldn’t have been trapped so easily.”
“I would think if it wanted to get away it could, Admiral. All it has to do is go below the sound layer and ease off in any of three hundred sixty degrees.”
“Navigator,” Holman said. “What’s the depth here?”
“Shallow, sir. We have two hundred feet.”
“Should be deeper than that,” Leo said defensively. “We’re thirty miles out.”
“Yes, sir,” the navigator replied, her voice even. “But the current and wind from the mainland pushes the bottom up in this area. Makes a north-south-running ridge ten miles wide that separates the coastal current from the Atlantic Ocean.”
The faint sound of the SH-60 Lamps Mark III helicopter drew their attention.
“There goes the
Spruance
’s sixty again.” Upmann looked at his watch. “Right on time for the fourth grenade.”
“Wave them off, Leo.”
“Wave them off!”
“Yes, tell
Spruance
to hold up on the warning grenades. If the submarine was hostile, we would know by now. They’re friendly. Most likely French, and don’t want us to know they have been trailing us. The good news is we’ve done something that will give the captain of that submarine nightmares. We’ve embarrassed the shit out of him. Of course, could have been worse and we could have caught him on the surface, but it’ll be bad enough when his peers discover that he was caught by a surface unit. If
Spruance
hadn’t decided to conduct a man-overboard drill, it never would have detected him. The submarine was following in their baffles. We can assume it’s been following us for some time—probably a surveillance mission.”
“Don’t know why he would have nightmares. Current doctrine calls for two destroyers and four antisubmarine helicopters for every submarine you detect. Even then, you keep the destroyers out of range and fight it with the helicopters.”
“Did I say nightmares?” Holman chuckled. “The nightmares are the ridicule he’ll get when his fellow submariners find out. Submariners are like eccentric uncles. They want to be around the family, but they don’t want anyone to know they’re there or when they leave.”
Upmann lifted the handset of the sound-powered telephone plugged into the circuit on the starboard bridge wing. “Combat, this is Chief of Staff. Wave
Spruance
’s helo off and tell
Spruance
to quit dropping grenades for the time being. They are to remain ready, but hold off until told different.”
He held the telephone to his ear listening to the voice on the other end.
Upmann would be speaking to the Tactical Action Officer. The TAO would be Amphibious Group Two’s deputy operations officer, but knowing Captain Buford Green, his Operations Officer would be standing near the woman. The information revolution and the sweep of technological advancements in weaponry reduced the time for a warship to react to an attack from minutes to seconds. To respond to this reduced reaction time, the U.S. Navy had in the 1980’s authorized commanding officers to delegate to selected, qualified officers the authority to defend the ship and react to an attack.
Tactical Action Officer was the designation given that person.
Holman knew Commander Stephanie Wlazinierz was thoroughly qualified to fight the ship. People usually called her “Stephanie” or “W,” which she seemed to prefer. Even he’d had problems pronouncing Wlazinierz. He’d mouthed the name, fumbled it twice, and given up.
Stephanie was probably repeating the Chief of Staff’s orders. When a military action was under way and going well, there was always reluctance to back off until the event finished. In this case, he was doing just that—ordering them to stop and hold everything.
Upmann held the sound-powered telephone away from his ear. “W says the French are on NATO red telephone saying they have four Super Etendard fighters en route to do a flyover.”
“You mean requested permission?” Holman asked.
“She said they said they were going to fly over.”
“Find out if she inadvertently gave them permission. After our trip yesterday to the French battle group, I’m not gung-ho about them being anywhere near us.”
Upmann picked up the telephone and talked with Wlazinierz for several minutes. Holman listened to this end of the conversation, and couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Sir—”
“I heard. If I’m right, Stephanie told them to wait for permission and they said they already had permission.”
“Something like that, Admiral.” Upmann looked to the area two miles off their starboard where the SH-60 helicopter hovered in a tight circle.
“Something doesn’t smell right. Let’s get down to Combat,” Holman said, tossing his cigar over the side, stepping through the hatch to the shout of “Admiral on the bridge,” followed by “Admiral off the bridge” as he scrambled down the ladder behind the helmsman. Upmann was a few steps behind.
“Admiral in Combat!” someone shouted as Holman opened the hatch at the bottom of the ladder and stepped inside the darkened compartment. No one moved from their consoles and weapon systems. When engaged in operations or standing a
watch, sailors might acknowledge the presence of a senior officer, but they never stopped what they were doing. The job must go on.
Captain Buford Green stood behind his broad-shouldered assistant, Stephanie Wlazinierz, watching closely as she tweaked the defense of the task force.
“What have we got?”
“Four Super Etendards inbound and an unidentified submarine bearing one-four-four at eight thousand yards,” Buford replied.
Four nautical miles,
thought Holman,
pretty close for an unidentified submarine.
The French wouldn’t be so foolish as to actually attack an ally, would they? But then, no one thought civilian aircraft would be used as weapons of war before September 11th.
“Let’s open up our range to the submarine. Tell
Spruance
to recall her SH-60 and arm her.”
Wlazinierz turned around, short-cropped brown hair hung straight down alongside her head, framing a square-chinned face. “Admiral,
Spruance
is prepared. The skipper had two Mark-50 torpedoes moved to the helo deck a half hour ago.”
“Stephanie, you tell them to put one Mark-50 on her, but not to launch unless I personally give the order.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral,” Wlazinierz replied before leaning down to the ASW controller near her and relaying the instructions.
The static sound of the secure communications synchronizing between exchanges mixed with the low background noise within the blue-lighted CIC—Combat Information Center. Scattered amidst the sailors and officers manning the nerve center of the warship were seamen wearing the insect-like helmets of sound-powered telephones. Warships usually had three to four means of communicating throughout the ship. There was the notorious 1MC operated from the bridge, with an alternate switch in CIC. Each battle position had its own internal communications systems, and then there were the sound-powered broadcast systems known as 12MC installed where the warfighters stood. To win in an era where time and information determined combat success, getting the right information to the right person at the right time was the key.
“Get me that Frenchman who calls himself an admiral on the circuit,” Holman said through clinched teeth.
Who in the hell did Colbert think he was screwing with?
Green picked up a nearby red telephone and quickly established contact with the French aircraft carrier
Charles De Gaulle.
“Sir, Captain St. Cyr is on the circuit. Admiral Colbert is busy and unable to come to the—”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me!” Holman jerked the handset out of Green’s hand. “Captain St. Cyr, this is Admiral Holman. I am extremely concerned about having your aircraft fly near our task force without prior coordination. We have a lot going on and I would hate for an unfortunate incident to occur.”
The speaker mounted above the captain’s chair in Combat burst into noise, sending a loud squeal throughout Combat, causing those without headsets to scrunch their faces from the intensity of the sound.
Wlazinierz reached out and quickly lowered the volume.
“Well, that was painful,” Upmann mumbled, his eyes squinting as he twisted a finger in his ear a couple of times.
“Admiral, this is Captain St. Cyr. Admiral Colbert sends his apologies and asks that I convey to you that we believe you are right. We should have coordinated the flyby sooner, sir. Unfortunately, the admiral thought that sending our aircraft to help with your unidentified intruder would be prudent ally cooperation.”
The static from the speaker showed St. Cyr had released his “press-to-talk” mechanism.
“What the hell can a fighter aircraft do in an antisubmarine action? Wiggle its wings?” Upmann muttered.
Holman pushed the similar mechanism on his handset. “Captain, please recall your aircraft. If we had needed your assistance, you can be assured we would have asked our French ally for it. I am very concerned about the unintended-consequence possibility.” He released the button.
Several seconds passed. “Unfortunately, Admiral, it is too late to recall them. May I suggest that you and your task force steam north away from the contact and allow us to handle it. We are much larger. I have already taken the liberty of
dispatching the frigates
La Fayette
and
Floreal
toward your position. They are transiting at flank speed.”
Holman looked at Upmann, who scrunched his shoulders and looked questioningly at Green, who shook his head. Wlazinierz shook her head, held up one finger, and mouthed the words “First heard.”
“Captain St. Cyr, please convey my thanks to Admiral Colbert for his concern. Over and out,” Holman said. He slammed the red handset back into its seat on the secure red box.
“What in the hell!” he growled sharply. “I guess that answers our question as to whose submarine is off our starboard side.”
“Yes, sir, I think it does,” Upmann added.
Holman’s face hardened as he reviewed the options available. The most appealing was to shoot the sons of bitches down, but that would make the court-martial of Admiral Cameron look like small potatoes when the government finished with
him
. Regardless of the disagreement he and that French asshole Colbert had had yesterday, the fact remained that America considered France a valuable ally. Personally, if it wasn’t for Evian water and French wine, he couldn’t see any use for them. Of course, they did give America the baguette. Romance wouldn’t be the same without it.
He dropped his head for a moment before raising it to stare at the starboard bulkhead. Out there, four miles away, a French submarine was trapped by his sparse antisubmarine forces. A submarine that had been tailing them for God knows how long. This was not the act of an ally. If the USS
Spruance
hadn’t pulled an unexpected man-overboard to recover a lost basketball for the sailors playing on its helicopter flight deck, they might never have known the submarine was there.
He had little choice but to save face and defuse the situation. He felt the eyes of everyone in the darkened compartment on him. Some stared openly, others from the corners of their eyes, and a few would look quickly toward him and then away. A low murmuring told him whispered comments were being exchanged.
“Stephanie, turn the task force north away from the contact. We will leave it to our French ally.”
“But, sir . . .”
Holman lifted his hand. “I know, I know, but we have to do it. Turn the task force north, but turn it in such a way that it carries us closer to the Liberian coast.” Then in a whisper he added, “Let’s take advantage of this to move us closer to doing our mission, rescue Americans.”
“Sir, we can drop a Mark-50 torpedo on the submarine. They have violated international law by not revealing themselves and we are perfectly within our rights to attack her,” Stephanie offered.
Holman nodded. “We could,” he said sternly. “But we know—or strongly suspect—it’s a French submarine. I cannot deliberately sink or even attack it just because we have it pinpointed and they refuse to surface. Bottom line is the intruder hasn’t done one thing to show hostile intent other than refusing to surface.” He took a deep breath, shook his head, and sighed loudly. “No, we’ll use this opportunity to close our objective.”
“Well, sir, if we show them they can do this and get away with it, then—” Leo started.
“I know, Leo,” Holman interrupted, holding his hand up. “I don’t like it either, but we’re going to do it and we’re going to do it my way.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Upmann said. “Just, as your deputy, it is my responsibility—”
Holman laughed. “Leo, don’t give me that. I’ve used it too many times myself. Now you, Buford, and Stephanie make this happen. Our mission is to evacuate Americans from Liberia; not fight a war at sea. Let’s enjoy the fact the French just got egg all over their faces from an amphibious task force.”