Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (35 page)

“General,” Gentle called from a few feet away. He held up an M-16 magazine. “Sir, we’re down to two each—maximum.” He looked over the hood of the Ford SUV, raised his gun, and fired a quick three-shot burst at an Arab standing near the corner of the building. The man jerked like a puppet as Gentle’s blast hit him.

Several windows on the armory building exploded simultaneously, raining more glass down on both defenders and attackers. Black smoke roiled from the building and flames shot from the windows. Even a hundred feet away, the heat from the inferno raised the ambient temperature. The good thing was the terrorists were closer to the fire.

Shooting tapered off as more enemy appeared along the rise, falling to the ground and shooting at the defenders. He could surrender, but he recalled other surrenders to promises of safety. They could die fighting, or they could die like sheep in a slaughterhouse. If they were going to die, then he wanted to take as many of the enemy as possible into whatever afterlife there might be.

“Hold your fire,” Thomaston ordered, raising his hand. A single shot came from the attackers, as if someone had used his hand as a target. If so, they missed.

Thomaston used the pause in the fight to assess the situation. Across the front of the nearly square defensive perimeter, two Ford SUVs were butted up against each other. A school bus covered the right, and two pickup trucks made the south side. A similar arrangement formed the east side—their rear. The women and children had moved outside the vehicles making up the back line. Behind them were more disabled vehicles, and then the east wall. They were trapped. The east and south walls were intact. What was good in slowing the attackers was just as good in keeping the townsfolk trapped. There was no escape. They had two options to survive. One, the Marines arrive, kick ass, and take names. He looked up at the sun. Mid-morning, he figured. The other was to hold out till night and make a run for it. If he surrendered, none of their lives would be spared. These fanatics lived for the moment when they could kill Americans.

“We can’t hold out much longer, sir,” Gentle said quietly.

“You think, Craig, you can breach that east wall and fight your way south to the tree line?”

“Why, General? So I can then fight my way to what little protection the jungle is going to provide south of us?” He shook his head, paused, and then added, “Maybe at night I could. But now? Daylight? I doubt it.”

“It may be the only chance some of these people have.”

Gentle nodded. “I know you’re right. But whoever goes that way most likely will die.”

“If they stay here they definitely will die.” Thomaston pointed to the growing number of enemy in front of them. “You see what they’re doing?”

The repeated shouts of
“Allah al Akbar”
replaced the sounds of gunfire.

Gentle looked. “Yeah, they’re working up their religious fever to charge. Looks as if they are waiting until—”

“More of them are inside the armory.”

“We could blow a hole in the back wall. It would be smaller than the front gate, making it slower for us to get out of here. Then we might be able to make it the quarter mile to the jungle before they run outside, man those armed pickups, and shoot us down. Other than that, it looks good.”

Thomaston nodded. “Don’t hold back, Sergeant Major. Tell me what you really think,” Thomaston said with a trace of humorous sarcasm.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell, General. Most of these folks are out of shape, overaged, and non-combat-able.”

“Those are the ones who will have to stay with me to pin down as many of the attackers as we can,” Thomaston replied, pointing to the growing crowd along both sides of the burning building. “Or those are the ones who will be sacrificed to save the few who do make it to the jungle.”

Gentle grinned. “Only you would think of going on the offensive when you’re outnumbered five or six—probably ten to one.”

“Yeah, Sergeant Major—but there’s two of us.”

Gentle laughed. “I’ve heard that joke, sir. Too many times, and believe it was you who told me. I suspect that between you and me we can keep them occupied long enough for the others to get out.”

Thomaston shook his head and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This time, Craig, we separate. I’ll remain.” He held up his hand, palm out at Gentle. “No, no argument. I’ve been shot at, blown up, and knocked six ways to Sunday today. You’ll have to lead them out and through the jungle to the coast. Hopefully, our Navy and Marine Corps brethren will spot you.”

“No, General. I think this time I shall ignore your orders. I think I’m staying here with you, sir. There are others who can lead them out—”

“AMERICANS! THIS IS AMIR ABU ALHAUL!” a bullhorn boomed in sharp accented English.

Thomaston spotted the man standing on the south side of the building. So this was the notorious Abu Alhaul who the United States had been searching for since he massacred those Americans in Kuwait. And those must be his lackeys surrounding him. The bearded man was close enough to see their position. A good sniper could take him out.

Thomaston raised his hand and waved. Talking was time, and time was the thing they needed most. They were nearly out of ammunition, and there was no place to go but a little bit deeper into the vehicle park until the east wall stopped them.

“Craig, get that east wall blown.”

A man with a white flag marched forward, his slippers sliding a little on the sloping ground. The messenger wore a long white aba stained with blood and soot. He stopped about thirty feet from the perimeter. He drew back—

“Don’t shoot!” Thomaston shouted.

—and threw a container.

“THOSE ARE MY TERMS FOR YOUR SURRENDER, AMERICANS!”

The container landed in the center of the perimeter. Samson ran forward, grabbed the container, and handed it to Thomaston. He pulled two sheets of paper from it. Thomaston read the first one, his anger building as he read the second. The offer of safe passage was there. The same offer made to the holdouts in Kuwait. The other demand was something to which he could agree even less.

“What does he want? Us to give up and have him slit our throats one at a time?” Tawela Johnson asked.

Thomaston looked to the left. It took a second or two to recognize the slim young woman from yesterday. Her hair had been singed off. Dull, dried streaks of blood covered her right arm. The right side of her attractive face was swollen; one eye was completely shut by the swelling. Probably a near-miss mortar explosion.

“Something like that,” Thomaston said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “First, we lay down our weapons, march out, and give him the vehicles.”

The eyes of the old soldier locked with the eyes of the young woman.

“Y’all ain’t gonna do that, I hope?”

“General, we don’t have the ammunition or firepower to last much longer,” Reverend Hew interjected. “I am sure if we follow his terms and let him have his victory, at least we will live. God is working—”

“If we give him the armory and these vehicles, at least he can’t use them,” a townsmen said, holding up a handful of spark-plug coils. He drew back and threw, scattering them among the vehicles. He brushed his hands together. “There! They’ll play havoc trying to separate them. The vehicles are dead. Screw them.”

Craig Gentle handed the paper back to the general. “According to this, General, the women and children can go free. He guarantees to escort them to Ivory Coast and out of the country.”

“He’s lying. To him, every one of us is a threat to his subjugation of the world into some Islamic caliphate. He knows if he allows the women to live, more Americans will be born. You allow the children to live, and then your children will have to fight them. No, I’ve already seen what they offer. In their minds, we’re heretics. No better than sheep hung up and their throats cut as an offering to their Allah.” Thomaston glanced around at the people crammed into the vehicle park. He wished he had time to talk with each of them. “Yeah, God works in mysterious ways,” he mumbled.

“Are we going to give the people the choice?” Reverend Hew asked.

Thomaston shook his head. “Reverend, this is war, not a democracy. No choices. We—they made it when we emigrated to Liberia. This country is as much ours as America is.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “You disagree, Sergeant Major?”

Gentle nodded once. “No, I don’t, General. Well, maybe a little, but I’ve spent too much of my life following you to decide otherwise at a time like this.”

Thomaston looked toward the ridge where more enemy continued to file into the ranks. “Kind of like the Alamo, wouldn’t you say?”

“And the Indians are in front.”

Thomaston chuckled weakly. “Didn’t know there were Indians at the Alamo.”

“And there aren’t any in front either.”

Reverend Hew turned and walked back to a group of townspeople. He began to tell them what Thomaston intended and that they were not going to be able to decide whether to surrender or fight. That this man they expected to lead them to safety was now giving away their only hope to live. God wanted them to live, and to follow God’s ways meant they must accept the word of Abu Alhaul.

Thomaston heard the harangue, but ignored it. Without looking, he knew the townspeople were dividing into two camps. Those who would continue to fight, and those willing to throw themselves on the false mercy of this radical believing they would be allowed to go free.

He crumpled the note and crammed it back inside the metal container. He tossed it up a couple of times and turned to Gentle. “Better breach that back wall, Sergeant Major. You’re going to need it soon.”

Gentle pointed at Reverend Hew. “Don’t know if many would follow, sir. Maybe I should remain here and help you implement General George Patton’s philosophy of making the other fellow die for his country.”

Thomaston laughed. “If he had a country. What should we tell this little asshole?”

“Sir, it should be something that history books can quote.”

“So, I guess
’Fuck Off and Die’
wouldn’t be something schoolchildren could be taught or politicians could quote?”

Tawela Johnson hobbled forward to the side of Reverend Hew. The crowd around the reverend was growing as others gathered to listen to what the religious leader of Kingsville was saying. Tawela heard the exchange between Thomaston and Gentle, changed direction, and joined the two men.

A white bandage around her arm was covered in fresh blood. “How about ‘Bite me,’ ” she offered.

“You heard?”

“I think some of us did, General.”

Those in the rear, out of hearing range, could only hear Reverend Hew trying to raise a rebellion against Thomaston. Reverend Hew, who was convinced the majority of the
townspeople would follow him in accepting Abu Alhaul’s terms. Why wouldn’t they, Thomaston thought. The man has his God, Abu Alhaul has his Allah, and never the twain shall meet.

Thomaston sighed and turned. Everyone seemed to be staring at him. His eyes trailed over the armed defenders crouched around the vehicles. You never knew what the Israelis put up with until it happened to you
. There was another God; Yahweh. Wish the three of those Gods would get together and fight it out and leave their people on earth alone.
His eyes lingered for a moment on those still manning their weapons—those on the front line of this last redoubt. A soldier never chooses who he or she will die with. Bandages, dirt, anger, fear, and blood marked his ragtag militia. They knew. Everyone knew death was swinging his sickle this day. Most had lived what many would call a full life. Every one of them wanted to experience more before
God, Yahweh, Allah, or whatever
clocked them out. He wondered if any understood the historical importance this stand might take on. What they did here today could become either a rally or a dirge for Africa and America.

He propped the papers on the side of the Ford Expedition and wrote his reply. He handed it to Retired Sergeant Major Craig Gentle, who read, grinned, stuffed it back in the container, and tossed the thing toward the rebels.

“What did you say, General?” Tawela and Revered Hew asked simultaneously.

Reverend Hew saw Gentle throw the canister. “Stop him!” he shouted. The reverend ran toward Gentle, his hands out.

“He told Abu Alhaul, ‘You have five minutes to surrender your forces to the Army of Free Liberia.’ ”

Gentle struck out, knocking Reverend Hew’s arms down, and causing the elderly pastor to fall to the ground.

Harold French sighed. “Guess that means we won’t worry about this heat much longer.” The tall, bulky American-Liberian pushed himself onto a knee and wiped blood from his cheek before shakily standing upright and moving to the front of the perimeter.

“Be thankful it’s still morning.”

One of the rebels ran forward, scooped up the canister, and ran to Abu Alhaul.

Thomaston looked down. Two of the reverend’s followers
ran forward, helped the reverend to his feet, and pulled him back with the rest of the townspeople. The general watched for a second, and then turned his attention to the front.

“What is it the Indians say? ‘Today is a good day to die.’ ”

Abu Alhaul opened the container. The Arab threw the container aside, read what Thomaston had written, and then wadded up the papers and tossed them away. The terrorist leader stroked his beard a couple of times before turning on his heels and disappearing around the corner of the building. There would be no further negotiations.

Thomaston looked around the perimeter at the others. Some met his glance, most concentrated on the scene in front, a few sat on the hot pavement, and others surrounded the angry Reverend Hew, whispering in the glare of the hot sun. One made the sign of the cross across her head and chest. Thomaston ran his tongue over his lips, feeling the small cracks caused by the heat and sun. A deep sigh escaped.

Gunfire erupted as the enemy, howling
“Allah al Akbar”
at the top of their voices, rushed the outnumbered Americans. Thomaston raised his M-16, and with the others sent many on to their Maker before they ever cleared the dead grass of the compound or reached the paved parking area.