Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (31 page)

The giant glanced uphill at Mumar from beneath furrowed eyebrows bunched over narrowed eyes. Asraf’s chest rose and fell in deep breaths as his lips curled upward. Mumar mistakenly decided Asraf’s performance was that of a coward who used his size to intimidate and bully. He should have realized this. He smiled.

“Don’t laugh at me! You are no better than the rest of us!” Asraf shouted, sweeping his left arm through the surrounding bush to point at the other two men.

“I’m in charge,” Mumar said, taking a deep breath and standing as tall as he could. His height could be intimidating. His hand tightened on the pistol. He slid his finger onto the trigger. Not only was Asraf a coward, he was crazy. He was like those who ate the wild berries in the jungle. Only this one never voided them from his system. With his thumb, Mumar flipped the safety off.

“You may think you’re in charge. You are but a lover of men. Your butt hole must be this big,” Asraf said, balancing the M-50 against his leg to cup the index fingers and thumbs from both hands. He laughed, looking at Ougalie, who laughed with him. “Yes, this big.” Asraf laughed louder. “You should have seen this boy,” he said, jabbing his finger at Mumar several times, all the while glaring at the taller but lighter man. The recapture of the M-50 by Asraf’s right hand didn’t slip by Mumar.

Then, in a low, menacing voice, his eyes locked with Mumar’s, Asraf continued. “In Monrovia, when we had our
choice of women, he refused to enjoy. He walked around the camp, watching us having fun, and when we invited him to sample them, including the American woman and her daughter, he refused. He turned his nose into the air as if he was so much better than the rest of us. Are you, Mumar? Are you better than the rest of us?”

“I don’t have to wait for someone to hold a woman down for me to enjoy. I do not have to couple while other men enjoy the spectacle.”

“We had two wild women and he wanted no part of them,” Asraf said, talking to the other two while his eyes remained fixed on Mumar.

“You talk too much.” Mumar tensed, waiting for Asraf to work up the courage to make his move.

“His nose was in the air,” Asraf said in ridicule to the amusement of Ougalie.

Mumar kept his left side toward Asraf, keeping the pistol out of sight. Ougalie was thin, as if bereft of substance for most of his life, living off discards of others. There were many like him in the slums of the cities. Africans who would rather beg than work. This one was more of a coward than Asraf. Asraf was a bully, a coward, and dangerous when his confidence overloaded his ego. Ougalie was a true coward who would follow the stronger until the tide turned. Then, the man would flow with the current, rushing away at the first sign of danger.

Mumar glanced at the third man. Nakolimia was slightly larger than Ougalie. The torn green half-sleeved shirt he wore revealed the wiry muscles of a man used to heavy work all his life. Nakolimia stood with his hands hanging by his sides, watching the confrontation and giving no sign of a smile or of revulsion. Nakolimia was a survivor. He would go with the victor, Mumar decided. In Africa, as in Afghanistan, changing sides came easy. It took only seconds for Mumar to assess the two men and realize the true outcome was only between him and Asraf.

“I did not watch,” Ougalie said, stepping up beside Asraf. “I too enjoyed the women, but what my brother Asraf says is true, now that I recall it, Mumar. You didn’t prove your
manhood in Monrovia. Instead, you watched what real men do to women.”

“He probably walked off to relieve himself in the shadows so he could watch us without us seeing him,” Asraf said. He cupped his right hand and jerked it up and down several times. “Like this.”

Asraf took a step forward as if unintentionally changing his stance. The movement was not lost on Mumar. The man was positioning to where with a fast move or leap, he could grab Mumar in those heavy arms of his. If that happened, the game would be over quickly.

“She jerked like a bull with a bee under its tail, screaming for more. . . .”

“If she was having so much fun, why’d you cut her throat?” Keep him off balanced.

The big man’s nostrils swelled. His lower lip jutted out and Mumar met the hostile stare.

“When I am done with a woman, she will never find another man like me,” Asraf said with a dark smoldering look. Blood vessels along the sides of the man’s forehead appeared to swell. “It is better they die than suffer the remainder of their life hoping for a man who can fulfill their desires such as I.”

Mumar caught the slight movement of Asraf’s hand tightening on the M-50. He glanced down. The humus on the barrel showed the M-50 was no longer buried in the damp forest floor. While he had watched Asraf and the other two, Asraf had slowly edged the heavy machine gun to where he could swing it up quickly.

“What d’you think Abu Alhaul is going to do when we tell him how you offered yourself to us?” Asraf jerked the heavy machine gun up in one smooth movement.

The speed of the big man surprised and nearly caught Mumar off guard. He brought the pistol around and fired before the heavy machine gun reached Asraf’s waist. The bullet made a nice round hole in the forehead of the giant before shattering the back of the head as it exited. “I think he will believe you exaggerate too much, Asraf.”

The other two jumped back. Mumar moved the pistol slightly so it covered them.

Ougalie dropped to his knees, his hand clasped in front of
him, and cried, “Don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me. I didn’t mean anything I said. Asraf made me say those things. I would never believe it. Never, never, never. Please don’t shoot me.”

Nakolimia met Mumar’s stare. The Liberian remained motionless in the same posture he had held throughout the confrontation.

“Ougalie, I think I may have to shoot you. You are Asraf’s boy, are you not?”

The man fell forward, flat on the ground, stretching his skinny arms forward, hands up. Turning his head so he could look up at Mumar, he pleaded for his life.

Mumar stepped forward, put the gun against the man’s head. “You were going to have a lot to say when we returned. Right?”

“No, no. Nothing. I swear. I was never going to say anything.”

Mumar smiled. A little begging and pleading was good for the soul. Not necessarily Ougalie’s, but definitely
his
. He reached down and pulled the slide back.

“Ahhhh,” Ougalie said and passed out. A wet puddle of urine flowed from beneath the body.

Mumar smiled.

“Who is in charge?” Mumar stood, removing the pistol from the unconscious Ougalie’s head.

“You are in charge, Colonel,” Nakolimia said. The man leaned down and picked up the satchel with the mortar shells. “I am prepared to continue, sir.”

Mumar nodded. He kicked Asraf’s body. “He had it coming. If I hadn’t killed him, someone else would have.” He slipped the safety back on and shoved the pistol into his holster.

Ougalie moaned. Mumar kicked him. “Get up, you piece of monkey shit.”

The man ran his hand back and forth, rapidly, over his head. Then he jumped up and explored his body in the same manner. His knees buckled for a moment and tears flooded down his cheeks.

“I didn’t shoot you, Ougalie. There are no bullet holes for you to find. If you make me angry, or fail to do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, I shall put holes in your
body and your head and leave you tied down for the ants and beetles to finish you off.”

“Thank you, master, thank you,” Ougalie cried. “Whatever you want.”

“Pick up that mortar. We have a mission to do. Our African brothers are expecting us to save their lives.”

He was amused at how fast the Sierra Leone native moved. Someday others would move just as fast, but because of respect instead of fear. Someday he—
Mumar
—would rid Africa of those who would attempt to master his people.

Mumar unzipped his pants and relieved himself on the dead man, ignoring the other two. They were his now. Finished, he rolled Asraf’s body to one side to free the M-50, then hoisted the heavy weapon across his own back. The ammunition cache he picked up. Damn, this was heavy. He should have waited until they reached the top before killing Asraf, but nobody was going to ruin his reputation regardless of how big a lie it was. He grinned, aware those behind him wouldn’t see it. Nothing like a justified killing to make a man’s day. When they returned to the others, he knew the story the two would tell of this would enhance his reputation as a leader with his fellow Africans.

Five minutes passed, and the machine gun grew heavier with each uphill step. Amazing how he came to be here, he thought. It was destiny, he told himself as he moved forward. No one else was as prepared as he was. He had a university degree; how many of the others had one? He had graduated from the University of Lagos. It would be others such as him who would free Africa from the influence and enslavement of the Arabs, the Chinese, and the white man. For that, he must never allow rumors and tales to survive that would affect his stature, for that would affect the larger plan of a free Africa. A free Africa under his leadership. He would have to take another wife. Even these imbeciles failed to understand why he would never sully his manhood with strange women. Never follow another man with a woman. AIDS had devastated Africa. So much so, an entire generation was missing. Few understood the impact of a missing generation, and even fewer appreciated the opportunity it offered for a leader such as him.
Most Africans believed themselves immune to AIDS, but Mumar knew better.

A man of his stature would need a younger, more energetic wife to work alongside the young one he already had. A virgin. Must be a virgin. Age was of little consequence. He needed one who would worship him and do what he said. One who would do whatever act he commanded. When he became powerful, there would be many chiefs who would offer their daughters to be close to him. A wealth of sons would ensure the survival of his line.

Ougalie glanced back at Nakolimia, who jerked his head in the direction of Mumar. Lugging the mortar and the shells, they fought their way through the undergrowth of the Liberian rain forest and jungle with the weapons Abu Alhaul had said would finish off the armory.

Mumar leaned forward as he walked, his breath more rapid as the incline increased. His mind lost in thoughts of future greatness, he stumbled across a vine and felt the weight of the weapon on his shoulder. Recovering quickly, he reminded the two men that once they started firing the mortar, they must avoid hitting the vehicles inside the armory. The SUVs and pickup trucks would be a welcome boon to their army. Combine the victory at the armory with a few smaller victories, and all across Africa fellow patriots would rise up to take their country back. Those same Africans would be the foundation upon which Mumar envisioned his own army with him as its general. It was a great time to be alive and to be African.

The hot African breeze drifting down across the top of the hill did little to cool the trio. But it felt good against his sweat-soaked T-shirt—even where it itched under the arms. Before Mumar’s fantasies swirled back to capture reality, voices riding on the wind broke his attention. He held up his hand.

“Ssssh,” he said, easing the heavy weapon to the ground. He rotated his right arm, stretching the muscle in his shoulder.

He tilted his head back and forth trying to make out the voices. He motioned Ougalie and Nakolimia to put the mortar and shells down. When they had, he waved them forward and whispered instructions. A few seconds later, they spread out, the two moving forward with their rifles at port arms, and Mumar behind them with his pistol drawn. They pushed the
brush away quietly and worked their way silently toward the top of the hill.

The voices became clearer as they neared. Mumar identified several male voices and a couple of women. They were speaking English—American English.

“THE FIGHTING’S STOPPED,” JOEL GRAYSON SAID AS HE
walked out of the forest, zipping up his pants.

The others, sitting around the tablecloth on the ground, turned toward him.

“Did you see General Thomaston?” Victoria asked, brushing the bread crumbs from her blouse.

Joel shrugged. “I don’t know what he looks like and from as far away as we are on this hill, those fighting below look slightly larger than stick figures. All I know is that those inside the arsenal still have control. They’ve moved the women and children from the building to where the trucks and cars are parked. They arranged a bunch of vehicles in a square. I think those vehicles will be their last stand.”

Victoria’s eyes darted around the group. “We’ve got to do something,” she pleaded.

Parker Swafford spoke from the far side of the tractor. “I heard a couple of loud explosions.”

Joel nodded. “Yeah, the rebels got some sort of grenade thrower or something.”

“Probably a mortar,” Victoria said.

“A mortar?”

“Yeah, it’s like a portable bomb launcher that you drop a shell into it and it fires it up and over obstacles.”

“I know what a mortar is,” Joel said testily, and then sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short.”

Victoria nodded. “I understand, but there must be something we can do. We can’t just leave those people to these terrorists. They will kill them. Those are other Americans down there.”

Joel shook his head. “What would you suggest? There’s only a few of us and a lot of terrorists. Right now, they don’t know we are here, and I would prefer to keep it that way. What I think we are going to do is backtrack. If we continue
forward, we are going to come within sight of the armory. Then, both them and the attackers will believe we are with the other side, and most likely start shooting us. Even if those in the armory recognize us as Americans, ain’t a damn thing they can do when those rebel fools turn on us.”

“You’re right, Joel,” Parker said as he walked around the back of the trailer. He held his shotgun across his chest. “I just don’t like leaving them.” He held his hand up to stop Joel from replying. “Ain’t like I don’t understand what you’re saying, but that don’t mean I have to like it.”