Joint Task Force #4: Africa (15 page)

WHERE THE PARACHUTES DISAPPEARED, A SPRAY OF
leaves rose into the air, raining around the holes Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson made as they penetrated through the leaves, limbs, and vines that reached from the ground of the jungle to a hundred feet above, where the tops of the trees melded together. Razi squinted, trying to see any signs of a parachute. As he watched, he noticed his head was turning to the left. He glanced up at the nylon canopy above him. The wind was pushing him to the right, giving him a right-bearing drift away from the holes where his aircrewmen had disappeared.

Razi gripped the lines tightly and pulled strongly on the left suspension line, looking up to watch the canopy dip in response. He swung to the left as air fell out of the parachute. He looked forward, searching for a few moments for the holes where the three had disappeared. He spotted them. The holes were to his right now. Without looking up, he pulled on the right line, swinging himself around again. Suddenly, his stomach lurched as he fell straight down for several feet before the parachute blossomed out and stopped the fall.

“That’s enough of that,” he mumbled. He stretched his fingers for a moment before retightening his grip on the lines. He’d just walk to where they landed. He thought,
How in the hell am I going to do that? Once I hit the ground, I’ll have no idea where I’m at and in which direction they are.

He watched where the three sailors had disappeared, wondering how he was going to find them once he was on the ground. Biting his upper lip, Razi looked down at the leaves on the trees below him. He was close enough he could make out individual leaves.
My compass!
he thought. Releasing the lines to the parachute, the fingers on his right
hand, encased in flight gloves, fumbled with the chest-high top zipper of his survival vest. He hadn’t realized how much he was shaking until then. It seemed an eternity before he finally managed to get a grip on the zipper, unzip the pouch, and grab the military compass. He rezipped the pouch. His small container of water and a power bar was in that pouch and if he left it open and they fell out, it’d be a hungry, thirsty night until rescue helicopters arrived. He held the compass up, steadying it as much as he could from the buffeting of the wind, and lined the needle with true north. It was visual guess, but the bearing from his position and where the other three landed was three-two-zero. He dropped the compass, letting it bob on the yellow nylon cord tying it to the survival vest. He grabbed the two suspension lines and then did what he did badly; he guessed distance. Razi had never had to guess distance while bailing out—he had never bailed out of an aircraft before today. Sure, he talked about it, but like those who can’t do it, he taught it. Three miles. No less than two miles, no more than five miles.

He looked down. What would his landing be like? Lots of trees down there. What if there’s a limb poking straight up, with a sharp point, waiting to rip through his flight suit and impale him? Involuntarily, his sphincter tightened. Jungles had swamps. Down below these trees could be nothing but swamp and malaria. But he’d taken his malaria pills. A vision of a gigantic crocodile crossed his mind, causing his thoughts to migrate instantly to the croc in
Peter Pan
that constantly chased the notorious Captain Hook. “Tick tock,” he said aloud.

He shook his head. The treetops seemed to be whirling as he approached. Razi saw open space to his right between several limbs. Without thinking, he jerked on the right line, swinging his descent to the right. He was pleased with
himself as he crashed through the opening. At the last moment, he jerked his legs up, tucked his head down, and crossed his arms across his chest. Though he intended to keep his eyes open once he reached here, he clinched them tightly, so tight he felt the pressure pushing them back into their sockets.

A limb slammed across his left ankle as he crashed through the trees. Leaves and light branches whipped against the visor of his helmet. His fall slowed, and abruptly he jerked to a stop. Razi opened one eye and peered down. The ground was about ten feet below him. Looking up, the parachute had tangled on the stump of a limb. How it became a stump never entered his thoughts. Ten feet was nothing, unless he broke a leg or ruptured his spleen. Razi wasn’t really sure what a spleen was, but he knew it was something dangerous to rupture.

“Well, I’m here,” he said aloud. He opened his arms, holding his hands out. They shook, and
why in the hell shouldn’t they?
he thought to himself.
It’s a wonder I didn’t piss myself,
he thought. Razi looked around the jungle, amazed how quiet it seemed until he told himself that with the noise he made crashing through the trees, his arrival probably scared everything away. At least, he hoped so. “Looks solid,” he said as he scanned the ground below him. “But then, what in the hell do you know?” he replied to his comment.

Brown was the color that came to mind. Jungles were supposed to be lush, wet, and green, filled with man-eating animals. Instead, below him was an open area blanketed with decaying limbs and leaves interspaced with leafy vines that ran from one side to the other as if racing to cross the open area as fast as possible.

He thought,
How to get down is the big question?
Without thinking about it, he bent his knees, released the leg
straps, then reached up and released the chest straps. His stomach lurched again as he fell.

“Oh, shit!” he shouted. His feet hit the ground squarely and instinctively, Razi rolled to the right, coming to rest on his back. He lay there for several moments, breathing deeply, and telling himself how stupid he was. He could have broken his legs and laid there, unable to move, until the man-eaters recovered from the fright he dealt them. Then they’d angrily return to show him what they thought about those who disturbed their domain.

He opened his eyes wide as he sat up and swung his head from side to side scanning the jungle. For some reason it reminded him of the forests of North Carolina, only hotter, more humid, and bears weren’t the main threat here. He reached up and tapped the survival vest, the SV-2B, the main pouch where the water was, then reminded himself that in survival training the instructors said to wait twenty-four hours before having a drink after an emergency situation. Damn it! Bailing out of an aircraft after they tell you not to is damn well an emergency, and a chief petty officer would never disobey Navy regulations.

He leaned to the side and pushed himself up. His left ankle was tender. Razi took several steps. It didn’t seem to be damaged or hurt too bad, just sore along the side where the limb had hit it.

Razi looked in the direction he believed he had to walk to rescue the three aircrewmen. It never dawned on the chief petty officer that his mission was anything but a rescue— Damn, two of the aircrewmen were third class petty officers, and Carson had just put on his second-class crow. What did the three of them know about survival? He had nineteen years in the Navy, nearly five times more than Carson, who was approaching his fourth year. He brushed his gloves together, knocking off the leafy debris stuck to
the cloth. Shit! He’d had more time going to the head in the Navy than those three had total Navy service. Petty officers need their chiefs in times such as these he told himself. He glanced in the direction he believed he needed to travel.
And, the sooner I get to them the better for them . . . and for me.

Razi reached up and unsnapped his helmet, taking it off. Holding it under his arms, Razi surveyed the surrounding landscape. A tight row of bushes blocked his way. He opened the compass, gave it a moment to steady up, and was surprised to see it was pointed in the wrong direction. Razi took a moment to congratulate himself on using his head when he was descending. This would be one great sea tale when those Air Force bubbas pulled the four of them out later today. He just hoped that he didn’t have to wait for his zoomie comrades-in-arms to finish their golf game or indulge in crew’s rest—the secret, high-five term for taking a nap.
We ought to have something like crew’s rest in the Navy,
he thought to himself. He smiled as he imagined the vision of Crazy Harry trying to come to terms with the idea that aircrew needed to rest.

He touched his pouch again, listening to an inner voice arguing with him that if he was going to be rescued tomorrow morning or, better yet, this afternoon, then a small drink wouldn’t hurt. He shook off the little devil-thoughts. Devil-thoughts were the bane of ankle-biters. Ignore them or small irritants would overrun bigger concerns, and his biggest concern was to find those three sailors of his. If he was going to be the hero and take credit for rescuing them, then he needed to be with them when the Air Force decided to show up.

He turned right. Nodded when he saw a path nearly fifty feet in this direction, marking it as the clearest from where he stood. Lined up with the compass. He clicked his lips in
appreciation, “It is indeed a host of miracles that descends upon you when you make chief petty officer.”

OJO OPENED HIS EYES. HIS HEAD HURT. HE WAS FACE DOWN
on the jungle floor. The stinging smell of explosives mixed with the decaying odors of the disturbed humus beneath him. His back and thighs hurt. They felt heavy. Whatever happened involved an explosion; he’d been around war long enough to recognize that whatever exploded had been near him. He pushed himself into a sitting position before reaching up and running his hands over his head. Then he started down his body, touching places that hurt—his back, his thighs—then he checked his ribs. A moan, which he quickly stifled, escaped as he touched his right side. Thought,
Cracked, not broken
.
Stirred, not shaken.
“What happened?” he asked himself. Debris rained from the vegetation overhead. One moment they were standing motionless, listening to the approaching aircraft, and talking about the troops rushing ahead to stop Abu Alhaul, and the next he was lying on the floor of the jungle.

He looked around. His AK-47 lay nearby on the ground, the barrel protruding from beneath a bush. He leaned over and pulled it to him. He blinked, feeling the sting of salt and grit. Ojo wiped his eyes as he turned his head, trying to locate the muffled screams penetrating the ringing in his ears. He saw others crashing through the brush, taking care of the wounded. Some turned toward him. He couldn’t hear the noise he knew they had to be making. Only the screams penetrated the fog of his hearing. He removed his hand, bent his head over, and blinked rapidly, feeling tears wash out his eyes. Finished, he lifted his head. His right eye was clear. Ojo blinked several times, until his left eye cleared. Using his free hand for balance, the jet-black
African stood. His dark eyes surveyed the carnage surrounding him. So, the Americans were truly after him. He found it hard to believe since he had calculated so carefully to avoid any offense or action that would give them reason to do what they just did.

A hand touched his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly. The pressure within his ears had hidden the approach of General Darin, the child-warrior from Liberia, now a young man, who was his youngest general. The young man’s mouth moved, but Ojo couldn’t understand him; the words were garbled. Ojo opened his mouth and wiggled his lower jaw until the air pressure in his ears released with a pop. The screams heralded the cascade of familiar sounds he had come to greet as familiar with the end of combat. They flooded his hearing. Ojo raised his AK-47 and quickly scanned the area. What if the Americans were also on the ground?

“What happened?” he asked Darin as his eyes surveyed the scene, searching for an attack, tilting his head to see if could hear gunfire elsewhere.

“It was a missile, General. An American missile. The aircraft came back. One moment the engine noise was increasing and the next a missile broke through the trees and exploded.”

“Ezeji?”

Darin pointed to where a group of men stood. “He is badly shaken.” The young man reached forward and touched Ojo’s shoulder. “More important; are you okay?”

Shouts and orders for everyone to be quiet drew Ojo’s attention before he could answer. Marching through the carnage was General Kabaka, surrounded by his warriors. Here was the mercurial general who wore a belt made of human skin. It was not lost on Ojo that the belt was black. This was not the time to have Kabaka near him. A tree
limb crashed to the ground fifty yards from where they stood, causing Kabaka to jump aside. A fleeting pleasure even as Ojo saw the man’s eyes never left him. If Kabaka wanted, he could kill him, Ezeji, and Darin, and seize control of the African National Army. He would do it, if roles were reversed. On the other hand, Kabaka was more a tactical adversary than one who pondered strategic moves. Ojo glanced at his AK-47. At this very moment, he was at his most vulnerable. How stupid of the Americans to try to kill him!

Kabaka stopped a few feet from Ojo. “I am glad to see you are alright, General,” he said in a tone that made Ojo doubt its sincerity. He watched the volatile general’s head turn as the lithe killer surveyed the area. Kabaka turned back to Ojo, their eyes locking for several seconds before Kabaka looked away and pointed to the top of the trees. Sunlight broke through a large hole in the canopy. “I hope you believe me now when I say the Americans want to kill you.”

Ojo glanced over Kabaka’s shoulder to the right. Ezeji was standing, supported by two Nigerians from Ezeji’s division. Unseen by Kabaka, the Nigerian general said something to the two soldiers and they released him, only to grab him again as his knees buckled. The huge Nigerian shook their hands off and started toward Ojo. The other Nigerians followed.

Ojo straightened. His vulnerability was being reduced every second. He met Kabaka’s stare. “Are we sure it was the Americans and not Abu Alhaul, who we know has missiles?” Ojo asked, knowing it was the Americans, but not wanting to give Kabaka the pleasure of being right.

Kabaka laughed. “Oh, General Ojo, you do love the Americans, and they love you so much they keep trying to kill you. Of course, the terrorists have missiles, but they are
surface-to-air missiles designed to shoot down aircraft.” He pointed to the opening overhead. “This missile came from the air. It is indeed a blessing,” he said with a trace of derision, “that you are still alive.” He turned as Ezeji entered his vision. “Ah, I see even the Nigerian has survived the assassination attempt by the Americans. What a pity you are wounded.”