Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (20 page)
Colbert smiled and leaned forward. “Please accept my most humble apologies, Admiral,” he said, insincerity dripping from every word. “I do have a message for you, and I am sure it parallels what your government has probably already told you.”
Holman hoped his expression didn’t reveal his confusion. What in the hell was Colbert talking about? His government? The United States government? No one had told him anything, other than go to Liberia, find the American citizens, and bring them the hell out along with any other foreign citizens who wanted to go. And kill anyone who tried to stop them.
Holman kept quiet. Colbert shrugged and continued. “As you know, Admiral, we are very concerned over America extending its war on terrorism into Africa. We have managed to contain and stabilize North Africa. We,
Europe,
have put the lid on the cauldron your Sixth Fleet stirred up two years ago. Through France’s leadership of the European Union, we are working alongside your government to forge a lasting peace in the Middle East between Israel and Palestine. We cannot permit America adventurism into central Africa.”
Holman’s chin nearly dropped.
What the hell . . .
His eyes narrowed as they met Colbert’s stare. “I believe the admiral is mistaken if he thinks we are here to conduct antiterrorist operations in Liberia. We’re here to evacuate our citizens and not to become engaged. We will also be evacuating citizens of your country.”
To Holman’s left, St. Cyr cleared his throat, fleetingly drawing Colbert’s attention.
“Admiral, France is considering sending troops from its contingent in Ivory Coast to bring out our citizens. Your offer is noted, but we believe we are able to take care of the few
hundred French citizens in Liberia. As for your citizens, we understand there are even less than ours in Liberia.”
“We have over two thousand citizens in Liberia, Admiral,” Holman replied. “So, from wherever you’re getting your numbers, you need to send them back to the calculating table.”
Colbert shook his head. “I think, Admiral Holman, of those two thousand, most are Liberian citizens now.”
“They still hold American citizenship.”
“It is only a sham to give America an excuse to expand your influence into an area that France has served throughout its history!” Colbert shouted.
“Three things, Admiral,” Holman replied, his voice low. “One, you’re wrong. Two, don’t shout at me. I’m not one of your lemon-sucking flunkies. Three, return me to my ship immediately where at least my officers know how to make a proper cup of coffee!”
Holman stood and motioned Upmann and Davidson aside. The French admiral reached forward, grinning, and took a pastry from the table.
AS THE MAN’S HAND CAME DOWN, THE RAISED MACHETE
came with it. The left side of the charging rebel’s face had been replaced by a deep well of bubbling red where Jamal’s bullet had blown it off. The motion of the machete as it came toward him seemed to slow as the rebel toppled forward.
Jamal jumped, his eyes wide—a startled whimper escaped—as another figure leaped from the right, slamming into the dying African rebel, knocking the man and the machete into the brush on the other side of the path.
“You all right, boy?” George asked, pushing himself off the dead man and brushing debris from his trousers and shirt as he stood.
Jamal nodded, his throat so tight he couldn’t speak. He started to shake uncontrollably.
George reached over and pulled Jamal to him for a moment before releasing him. He ran his hand over Jamal’s head. “Don’t worry none about it, boy. All men gotta die sometimes. You just helped him reach his goal. They mostly wanna go to heaven and talk with Allah. All you did was help arrange the meeting.”
“You’re hurt, George,” Victoria said.
George looked toward where the rebel had emerged, his
eyes narrowing. “We all gonna be hurt more if we don’t move,” he said, “They’ll be coming. It don’t take no rocket scientist to figure out which direction the boy’s shot came from. Now, y’all come on.” He hefted his gun into the cradle of his left arm.
Jamal noticed the man’s right hand wrapped around the base of the M-16, so the finger could slide easily onto the trigger.
“We gotta move and we gotta move fast. We gonna head uphill. There’s an old road up there that must have been used decades ago by the lumber people.”
“George, how you know all this?” Victoria asked.
Jamal pushed himself up, brushing himself off as he stood. The gun felt heavy. The shaking had stopped, but he wanted to get a move on, like George said. He looked back, expecting rebels to burst through the jungle curtain of vegetation at any moment.
“I thought you’re as unfamiliar with this area as we are,” Victoria added.
George looked at her and frowned for a moment before a large smile broke across his face.
Jamal reached forward and touched the big man. “I think we should go,” he said quietly, his voice shaking.
“Boy, you’re right,” George answered, then turning to Victoria, he said, “There are some things best left unsaid. Now, come on and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Victoria grabbed Selma’s hand and followed the huge man into the bush, leaving behind the faint animal trail they had been following. They had only gone a few steps when George stopped. “We have to be quiet from here on,” he warned, his voice barely audible.
Jamal nodded in agreement, glancing behind him. What if they were out there, waiting to ambush them like they did the cars? He pulled his rifle up, rotating his head to both sides in an attempt to hear anyone sneaking up on them.
“Wait here,” George said, “I’ll be right back.” The man pushed past Victoria and Selma, running his hand over Jamal’s head as he passed. “That’s it, boy, you keep an eye out and don’t shoot me when I come back.” Then George disappeared back the way they came.
Several minutes later, the sound of moving brush joined the noise of the rain forest. When the noise stopped, George reemerged through the brush.
“Okay, they may miss where we got off the trail.” He pointed to the hill rising out of the jungle ahead of them. “That hill is more a small mountain. You just can’t see the top for the trees,” he whispered. “We’re going to the top. Up there, the trees thin out and we should find that old road I mentioned. Then, it’s just a case of us following it to Kingsville.”
“I hope so,” Victoria said.
“Me too,” Jamal mumbled, licking his lips. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips again. A slight shiver rippled through his body. Vapor rose from his shirt. Looking at the others, he saw the same faint cloud of water moisture rising as the heat baked away the rain from the others’ clothing. The heat had returned in force, evaporating the rain as quickly as it had suddenly begun ten minutes ago.
An hour later, Jamal reached down and rubbed his legs. This going uphill was rough. He glanced behind him again. About every four or five steps he did that. He had been watching their rear ever since they left the path. Somewhere out there, rebels or terrorists or whatever were following them. The jungle was too quiet for him and his friends to be the only ones in it. What he didn’t understand was why the rebels wanted to kill them. They hadn’t done anything. For whatever reason, behind them death followed, and while he had no idea what was ahead, it couldn’t be worse than what followed.
At first, trekking uphill had seemed easy. It used other muscles in the legs, but as they moved on—
not stopping to rest
—the muscles in his calves had first tightened, and then begun to hurt. Jamal bit his lower lip slightly. He refused to complain. Selma was doing enough of that for all of them.
A few minutes later, Victoria reached down and picked Selma up. The complaining tapered off after a while.
Jamal put one foot in front of the other. If he kept moving one foot at a time, he could keep up. No hill went up forever. But it sure seemed to him this one did.
“STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!” A VOICE SHOUTED FROM NEARBY.
George and Victoria, with Selma balanced on her side, stopped. They stood perfectly still in the center of the overgrown road. Brown and green grasses bunched around their calves. Jamal waited quietly on the far side of the road from where the warning had originated, near the jungle bramble that marked the edge of the old road. Keeping his head still, he shifted his eyes back and forth, trying to spot the source of the shout. He gripped the barrel of the gun, slowly easing it up.
“Don’t be foolish, boy. I could shoot you before you got it up.”
“You sound American, so why don’t you come out?” George asked.
“Just wanted to make sure you were Americans.”
Two overgrown ruts showed where long-ago traffic had once dug holes into the earth. Small three-foot-high trees, thick bushes, and briars grew among the tall grasses alongside the old lumber track. The four had been following the easier path for about twenty minutes.
Jamal thought his legs were going to collapse. Why did the man want to make sure they were Americans? Were they going to kill them? Was this how it was going to end? He looked at Selma, seeing the back of her head. His sister leaned out, her legs around Victoria’s waist, hands on the woman’s shoulder, and her head whipping back and forth. A whimpering sound reached his ears. Victoria looked down, ran her left hand through the small girl’s hair, and muttered soft words.
Jamal couldn’t believe this. They had outrun and lost their pursuers. At least, he thought they had. The last noises of pursuit were over two hours ago. Since then, they had kept a steady pace, heading north away from where he had killed the rebel.
Noise of people working their way through the bushes drew everyone’s attention. Two men and a young lad about twelve years old stepped out onto the road. They looked like family to Jamal at first glance. The younger man, about mid-thirties, wearing blue jeans, a ball cap, and a light blue long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, held a shotgun. His white face, covered with a rough growth of beard, was bright red from
exposure to the sun. Dark sweat stains ran down the inside of his shirt.
The older man lowered his shotgun. Narrowed dark eyes scrutinized George, Victoria, Selma, and Jamal. Wrinkles earned from years of work in the sun wrapped the man’s face, reminding Jamal of a trash can near his father’s desk filled with wadded-up and discarded paper. The man’s face reminded him of the wadded paper, only the face was black.
Then, he shook his head. “Ain’t them, Joel,” the old man said, spitting to the side, brown spittle trailing the chew all the way to the ground. He wiggled, adjusting his overalls slightly before tilting the ball cap back off his forehead. “Naw, ain’t seen these two before.”
“You sure, Parker?” the one called Joel asked. “You said you didn’t get a good look at all of them.”
“That may be true, Joel, but I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between being mean, being scared, and the difference between a man and a woman. Though Artimecy might argue the latter. These four are scared and exhausted, and we’re scaring them more.” He reached over and pushed the younger man’s barrel down. “Lower that shotgun before we have an accident, Cannon.”
Victoria eased Selma to the front of her and lowered the girl to the ground. Then, she leaned forward, her hands on her knees, her breath deep and rapid.
Jamal looked at the boy. They were both about the same age. From his skin color, he suspected the boy’s mother was either African or African-American. The boy caught Jamal’s stares and stared back. Jamal nodded. The boy returned the nod with a slight grin. George took a step toward the three.
“Hold on a minute, bubba. Who are you?” Joel asked, raising his shotgun again.
George straightened up. “I’m George Coleman. This is Victoria. The boy is Jamal and . . . what’s yore name, girl?”
“Selma,” Jamal said, watching his sister bury her face in Victoria’s skirt.
“We’re trying to get to Kingsville.”
“Ain’t we all,” the older man said, spitting to the side.
The older man reached over and pushed the boy’s single-shot twenty-two rifle down. The boy started to raise it again
so it pointed at George, but the old man cocked his head and shook it. “No,” he said. “You and yore pa are determined to shoot someone.”
He turned to them and said, “I’m Parker Swafford; this is Joel Grayson and his son, Cannon. Sorry we scared you. Maybe you can tell us how you came to be on this old lumber road. It’s not like Joel and me see too many visitors this far off the main road.” His voice had that crusty sound with that slight vibration that comes with age.
For some reason, Jamal didn’t know why, he trusted these people, even if this Joel and the boy Cannon kept pointing their guns at them. Before George or Victoria could answer, and startling himself, Jamal started talking and once he started, the words flowed like a cathartic purge as he told about Monrovia, his parents’ death, the SUV, and the ambush. As he talked, Selma’s crying punctuated the story.
He stopped as suddenly as he had started. The adrenaline high was gone. He was exhausted. Twice in less than twenty-four hours they had escaped Lord knows what fate.
“Sounds like the same bunch that raided my place this morning,” Parker said, directing his comments to Joel, “and who nearly caught you and the family at lunch.” He looked at Jamal. “Was there a thin man leading them with his hair covered with a black turban?” He twirled a finger around the top of his head. “Couldn’t talk without screaming?”
“We weren’t there long enough to tell,” George answered. “It’s hard to see someone when you’re bent over and running for your life.”
Victoria reached down and brushed Selma’s hair with her hand.
“When they started shooting, we fought our way into the bush. We heard them chasing us through the woods, and after a couple of encounters, we think we lost them. Boy here,” George said, jerking his thumb toward Jamal, “killed one of the fanatics before we were able to lose them.”
The sound of voices from farther down the road interrupted their conversation. Someone was coming.
“Quick,” Joel said, “this way.”
They quickly followed the three up the bank on the other side, and into a small open area where the bushes and grasses
had been flattened.
“Something big done that,”
Jamal said to himself. And it caused him to look around, searching for whatever had created the clearing and hoping it didn’t decide to come back now.
“This is where my daddy and I come to hunt,” the young lad whispered.
“Cannon, be quiet,” Joel said, placing his finger across his lip.
Jamal squatted on his haunches alongside Victoria, who held Selma close to her, his sister’s face buried in the woman’s shoulder.
What kind of name is Cannon
? he wondered briefly.
Jamal had a full view of the overgrown road through the bushes. Several minutes passed before two men appeared around the curve in the road. Jamal recognized them. They had been in the convoy.
George leaned forward and touched the old man on the shoulder. “They were with us when the rebels attacked.”
Parker nodded, but said nothing as he turned his attention back to the front. When the two stepped in front of the hunting blind, Parker shouted the same thing he had before. Jamal had a moment of satisfaction as one of the men raised one hand while the other threw both of his into the air. The pleasure was short-lived. One of the men appeared to be Hispanic, while the other was obviously an African-American with a light skin complexion. Africans tended to be a dark-rich chocolate black.
“They’ve got a baby,” Victoria said, seeing the small bundle in the crook of an arm. She pushed her way through the bushes into the road. The others followed.
The two men told how they had darted into the jungle when the rebels overran the SUVs.
