Joint Task Force #4: Africa (18 page)

The bushes quieted and after a couple of minutes, Razi told himself whatever had been there had left. He lowered
the knife, straightened, and laughed aloud. Something small and furry shot from under the bushes and dashed across the top of the fallen tree. The laughter stopped abruptly as Razi slashed back and forth in the air with the survival knife. He stumbled back, tripping over a vine. The knife flew into the air as the small creature jumped off the tree and disappeared into the bushes on the other side. The knife came down on the tree trunk, the blade sticking into it.

Razi laughed again, his head going back and forth. He stepped forward and pulled the knife out of the trunk.
Good thing I didn’t have another chief petty officer here. I’d never live this down.

“You stupid shit,” he said. “Letting a small thing like that scare you. Some sort of rabbit, I guess” He placed his hand against his chest, feeling rapid heartbeats. “Damn glad no one saw that,” he mumbled.

A loud roar filled the jungle, causing Razi to jump. He looked back the way he had come, half-expecting to see whatever caused the roar bounding down the trail at him. The roar lingered through the jungle. Razi turned back to the fallen tree and leaped. Two steps and he was in the middle of the limbs, clawing his way over the top of the trunk, scrambling for the other side. A second roar, closer and louder, emerged from his right, sent his heart racing anew. There was a pack of them out there, and years from now when chiefs sat around the winter fire asking each other whatever happened to poor Razi, he’d be part of some lion’s DNA somewhere. Not the way he wanted to go. He stopped for moment, at the far edge of the tree trunk. The way seemed clear, but he couldn’t see what was beneath it. There was still the risk of snakes, and what if the lions had dug out a den under the fallen tree. It’d be like home delivery if he jumped into the middle of a lion’s den.

He raised his knife and bent his knees. Then, he
straightened again. Maybe he should jump backward, he told himself, turning so he faced the way he had just come. This way, when he landed, he’d be facing whatever was beneath the trunk. Another loud roar rattled the trees. He raised his knife. On the other hand, if he landed facing the way he wanted to go, he could land running. He bent his knees and jumped. He stumbled when he landed, falling onto his back. He looked at the tree trunk expecting to see feral eyes staring at him, but there was nothing but trunk and vines. He laughed. His own imagination was going to kill him. More roars echoed through the trees, rising in tempo to only stop suddenly. Starting low, rising in intensity each time; and each time it seemed to him the roars were getting closer. The chattering of animals in the trees drew his attention as he stood up, brushing himself off with his free hand. Whatever was out there was scaring the monkeys, also.

The trees above him disappeared from view as a second later, rain showered Razi, soaking him and sending water penetrating into his flight suit. One moment the jungle was hot, humid, but dry; and the next, Razi couldn’t see ten feet because of the heavy, thick, summer rain pelting the jungle, the noise of it hitting the surrounding vegetation drowning out the rustling of the wind. Several roars echoed in tandem and Razi breathed a sigh of relief. The roars that had sent him crashing across the fallen tree he recognized now. They had been no more than thunder, muffled by the jungle in which he marched. That was what the monkeys were fleeing; thunder. He pushed himself up, laughing aloud as he turned forward and continued to push through the overlapping bushes paralleling the faint trail he followed. He gripped the knife tight, not wanting to drop it, but not completely convinced he could put it away. What if it wasn’t thunder he had heard? What if lions, tigers, and
such were out there, tracking him, waiting for him to relax his alertness so they could rush in and finish him off. No, the knife remained in his hand in the event those roars had not been thunder. It wasn’t as if he’d spent a lot of time in the jungles, but the knife was a comfort.

ROCKDALE OPENED HIS EYES. HE RAISED HIS HAND AND
touched his head. His body tilted to the right. He quickly lowered his hand. He raised his head. A crisscross of limbs had stopped his fall. The sound of a limb cracking behind him drew his attention. He turned his head slowly. The main limb holding him was bent forward, broken nearly in half, the inside white of the limb easily visible and easily fresh. The creaking continued, so Rockdale laid his head back against the leaves. The cracking sound stopped. As long as he lay in this position, he should be all right, but eventually he was going to have to move. He could not stay there until rescue arrived. Lieutenant Commander Peeters had told him and MacGammon to find Carson.

“Rockdale, you all right?” MacGammon shouted from below him.

Rockdale turned his head to the right. A parting of the leaves showed MacGammon standing a few feet below him without his helmet on. “I’m okay. Where are we?”

“I’m standing on the ground. You are laying in a bed of limbs about eight feet off the ground.”

“Eight feet?”

“Well, it could be more, but you’re not going to kill yourself if you sit up and jump down here with me.” MacGammon held up his parachute. “I saved my parachute, so we can build some shelter for tonight.”

Rockdale raised his head again. The creaking of the breaking limb started anew. He searched with his hands
until both found small limbs to hold onto, and then he pushed himself up. The crack was sharp.

“Damn, Rocky!”

Rockdale went sliding forward, riding the breaking limb down like a chute on a playground. The ground was coming toward him—fast. Rockdale bent his knees as the tree delivered him to the ground in a standing position. When he stepped away, the limbs bounced back up, hitting him in the back and shoving him forward a few steps.

“Well, you got down a little easier than I did, Rocky.”

Rockdale touched his helmet gingerly on the left side. He unbuckled the chin strap and lifted the clear visor before pulling it off and laying it on the ground beside him. Then, he reached up and touched his head, bringing away blood on his hand.

“Looks as if you’ve bumped your head. Damn good thing you had your helmet on.” MacGammon unzipped his survival vest and pulled out the small first-aid kit each of them had. “Here, sit down so I can bandage you.”

Rockdale eased himself onto the brown jungle floor.

“You okay, Rocky? You haven’t said a word.”

“My head hurts.”

“Of course it hurts. Why wouldn’t it hurt? You banged yourself upside the head, and you’re bleeding like a—”

“Stuck pig. Don’t say it.”

“Now you’ve done it,” MacGammon said as he held the square gauze over the cut.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You know what I mean.” MacGammon fell onto his knees, pulling the tape out with one hand and using his teeth to rip it. A couple of minutes later the third class petty officer had spread anti-bacteria cream on the cut and a bandage was across the cut.

“This ain’t going to stay on long, you know? The cut
isn’t that deep, but it’s bleeding. Head wounds do that, you know?” He leaned away from Rockdale. “You know what your problem is?” MacGammon asked as he stood. “You got too much hair. If you had gotten a haircut like Badass told you—”

“How long have I been out?” Rockdale asked, reaching up and gently patting the bandage.

MacGammon shrugged. “Not too long. I watched you fall, but there wasn’t much I could do. We needed the parachute; that’s what they taught us in SEER training. I hurried as fast as I could, but I finished rolling the parachute before I worked my way down the trunk to check on you. I figured there wasn’t much I could do for you. Either you were going to still be alive or you were going to be dead. Either way, I’d need the parachute.” MacGammon held up the parachute. “You know, Rocky, it was amazing, really amazing. Did you know that nearer the trunk of the trees, there’s fewer leaves, so it was kinda like climbing down a weird ladder—know what I mean?”

Rockdale shook his head. It hurt. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Just tell me how long have I been out?” Rockdale asked, irritation with MacGammon showing in his voice.

“Don’t get angry with me, boyo. You’re the one who fell, not me.” MacGammon turned and walked away, his head turning as if searching for something.

“You could have come down and checked on me before taking your time with the parachute.”

MacGammon shrugged. “Look, asshole, I’ve already told you. Either you were going to be alive or you were going to be dead. Wasn’t gonna help either of us if I hurried down, found you dead, and didn’t bring my parachute. Now, would it?”

“You could have gone back up for it.”

MacGammon laughed. “And what if I’d gotten down and couldn’t climb back up. Wow, Rocky! You mental geniuses bug the shit out of me.”

Rockdale ignored MacGammon. Thought,
MacGammon, you’re a pain in the ass.
Rockdale pushed himself up on his elbows. How would he explain to the rescuers why he throttled his shipmate minutes after they landed? He smiled at the irony of being stranded with a dumb-shit like MacGammon.

“What are you smiling at?”

Rockdale shook his head once, causing a rush of pain across his scalp. “Nothing,” he said, reaching up and holding his head for moment. “We need to find Carson.”

MacGammon shrugged. “Just because the commander told us to find him doesn’t mean we have to.”

“Mac, you wanna leave Stetson out here to die?” Rockdale asked incredulously.

MacGammon opened his mouth for a moment, shut it, and then said softly, “No, guess I don’t, but I don’t want to wander too far from here. The aircraft commander did say they had us located. So, if we’re going to find him, we need to do it soon and we need to bring him back here. I don’t want us getting lost and discovering that when the rescue helos show up, they can’t find us. Won’t help us, nor help Stetson.” MacGammon looked around the area again. “You have any ideas on how we’re gonna go about it? It ain’t as if this jungle ain’t a jungle.”

Rockdale reached out, braced himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, and stood. Little white dots danced around his vision. First a few, then growing in such number that they hurt his eyes, forcing him to shut them. Must have been a hell of a blow to cause this. A feeling of nausea rushed over him and for a few seconds, Rockdale believed he was going to throw up. He was afraid to lean forward,
afraid he’d pass out and fall, but if he threw up in this position, the vomit would run down his flight suit. He opened his eyes. And into his helmet, the way he was standing. He turned his head. Rockdale didn’t want to spend the short time they were going to be on the ground walking around in a barf-covered flight suit, and he’d need the helmet when they rescued them.

“You’d better sit down, Rocky, before you fall. That must have been some blow to stagger you like that.” MacGammon reached out and took him by the arm. “ Probably hit several limbs coming down.”

Rockdale felt the man’s hands on his arm and meekly allowed himself to be led away. He opened his eyes. The white spots were still there, but he could see the jungle surrounding them—varying shades of green intermixed with browns. Sharp odors of decaying humus assailed his nostrils. He stumbled, causing pain to shoot up his leg where his foot had tangled with a thick vine.

“Whoa, boy. Don’t go falling on me. You weigh too much for this New Jersey lad to have to carry you.”

Another arm enveloped his shoulders and, involuntarily, he leaned on the shorter sailor’s shoulder.

“Here, sit here and let me get you some water. You must have a concussion or something.”

Rockdale bent his knees, reaching out with his free hand to ease himself down onto the moist ground. MacGammon had moved them nearer the other man’s tree where the limbs and leaves above shaded the area, keeping other plants from taking root. The clearing was about ten feet across, running downhill to where a wall of bushes, bramble, and vines wove an impenetrable wall of vegetation.

They both looked up as the noise of rolling thunder rode through the jungle.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” MacGammon said,
tossing the rolled up parachute onto the ground beside Rockdale. “We may need that, and to think, I just tied it together a few minutes ago.”

Rockdale lifted the bound parachute. Not only did MacGammon watch him fall and continue to roll the parachute, but the man took time to tie line around it before climbing down to find him!

The sound of rain hitting the jungle canopy drew their attention.

“Here, let me have the parachute,” MacGammon said, reaching out and taking it from Rockdale. With several quick flicks, the sailor untied the parachute. “Too late to build a lean-to, I think.” He held his hand out, watching the raindrops bounce off it. “Yep, too late.”

Several seconds later, a deluge broke through the jungle canopy and soaked the men. Rockdale sat in the rain, listening to MacGammon curse as he snapped open the parachute as if laying a blanket across a bed.

“The parachute!” MacGammon shouted, reminding Rockdale of a small child claiming his toy.

A moment later the nylon of the parachute enveloped him, and seconds after that MacGammon crawled beneath the makeshift shelter and held him against his side.

“You’d better never, ever tell anyone about this,” MacGammon said, his words fading as Rockdale passed out again.

CHAPTER 8

A CHIEF NEVER DRINKS; BUT IF A CHIEF DRINKS, A CHIEF
never gets drunk. But, in the unlikely event a chief gets drunk, a chief never falls down. But, if the chief falls down, he will fall in such a fashion as to hide his rank insignia so others seeing him will think he is an officer.
Razi leaned against the tree, the sound of the rain echoing inside his flight helmet from the heavy drops bouncing off it. Why did that initiation phrase pass through his mind? It was a ditty learned when he was initiated into the chief-petty-officer ranks years ago. Where in the hell did that come from? It was one with little relevance or reverence in today’s Navy where alcohol could cost you your career, and Razi had no intention of anything stopping him from making master chief. “It’s a legacy thing,” he mumbled aloud, eyebrows rising slightly. What would they say if they knew he had been in the jungle two hours and was already talking to himself? It wasn’t as if he could hear
himself talk. He couldn’t even hear himself think, with the rain pounding on his helmet like tiny hammers—never stopping. How would he remember any interesting tidbits of his conversation if he couldn’t hear himself talking? Razi smiled and pressed closer against the rough bark of the tree. The water-soaked fabric of the flight suit matched closely the bark of the tree. He blinked a couple of times as he strained to tell where the flight suit left off and the bark began. The manufacturer never intended for the flight suit to be a camouflage—or did they? Maybe the color was a Vietnam-holdover thing? He glanced up for a moment, only to quickly shut his eyes as the rain blinded him across his down visor. He looked down again, thinking at least the lions wouldn’t find him, if they were out looking for him. As long as this rain continued and he stayed where he was, nothing could find him.

Minutes passed without any sign of letup. Razi wondered how long this rain was going to last. Africa was the land of many things, but experiencing them wasn’t in his list of things to do. They could have their monsoons and monstrous rains that flooded everything one season, only to vanish and be replaced by desert the next. Like most Westerners who visited the Dark Continent, when the rains fell, Razi retreated to his hotel and the lounge until it lifted. Sure, he had been here long enough to know about them; to see them; and, to the best of his ability, avoid them. What he hadn’t done was try to assess how long they averaged because you never knew if they were going to be a short burst, over with by the time he drank his first beer; or a longer one lasting throughout the afternoon, into the evening, and continuing when you woke the next morning with a throbbing headache. This one wasn’t a short one, and he couldn’t stay in place forever waiting for it to end. Everything about Africa he wanted to know could be found
on
National Geographic
. Let those who enjoy mud, rain, insects, man-eating— He turned his head back and forth. He had to stop thinking about lions.

He stuck his tongue out, letting the rain run onto it. Razi curled his tongue, catching the rain, and letting the water trickle into his mouth. He was proud of himself. The plastic jar of water was still full and tucked away in his survival vest. He was drinking from the sky. Razi congratulated himself. He tilted his head up slightly, even so, rivulets of rain blocked his vision, but he wasn’t trying to see this time. He was satisfied with being walled in by the rain, hiding everything behind it. He doubted he could see more than twenty feet in any direction. The giant leaves of the bushes bounced from the impact, and the trail where he had been walking was covered with a couple of inches of water. He opened his mouth and was pleasantly surprised to discover the rain quickly filled it. So, for the next several minutes, Razi kept his mouth opened long enough to get a mouthful of rain, and then he swallowed.

The rain poured through the jungle canopy, hitting the trees hard and fast. Clouds, hidden by the jungle canopy, made Razi think of the rains he had once seen inside an old dirigible hanger near Elizabeth City, North Carolina. The hanger had been so huge, moisture collected near the ceiling, forming clouds, and then it would rain. That’s the way it seemed here—of course, the small showers inside the dirigible hanger were nothing like this. Maybe the clouds were trapped inside the canopy; maybe they were outside. All he knew was that the rain was torrential, pounding, drowning out any noise, washing the jungle clean. Razi swallowed. His thirst was disappearing, and he was proud of thinking of this. Something else to share with them at the club as they insisted on buying him his beer. His mouth began to fill again. Here he was, drinking rain water. Rain
water pouring down so fast, washing the leaves as it . . .
Monkey shit!

His mouth slammed shut. He swallowed the water before his mind told him to spit it out. Every animal that lived in those trees defecated in them, and here he was drinking water that had hit every leaf above him. No telling what diseases he was going to get.
Worms
. That would be least of his problems. Already hatching in his stomach, giving each other “high-fives” over having them an American. He had heard stories of humans shitting worms over five feet long—the scene in one of the
Alien
movies of those alien babies eating their way out of their human hosts caused him to jerk his head back, his helmet slamming into the tree. “Damn, Razi,” he said.

Razi stayed in that position for minutes, different scenarios of what could happen to him before he was rescued dashing across his mind, no one set of thoughts overriding the others, but not one thought had him getting out of the jungle with all four limbs attached. After a while, he leaned forward. For just a moment it seemed that the rain was slackening, but it must have been his imagination, for the bushes he could see a few moments ago on the other side of the trail were covered by a curtain of rain. Razi sighed as he leaned back against the trunk. He couldn’t stay here and wait for the rain to stop.

If he stayed here, Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson might do something dumb like decide to march out of the jungle. If a hike through the North Carolina–like jungle of Guinea was going to be like this, then he’d “by God” handle it. It wasn’t as if he was a newbie seaman with no experience. He was a chief petty officer, and chief petty officers never showed their insignia when they fell. Besides, Razi had decided this being-alone crap was for someone else, not him.

He tensed, putting his left hand flat against the tree behind him, feeling his glove snag slightly on the rough back. Razi would shove himself away from the tree and get back on the trail. The rain was more like a waterfall than rain, and it didn’t look as if it was going to stop soon. When he was stationed at the old Bureau of Naval Personnel at Arlington, he drove I-95 between Washington and his hometown of Raleigh many times. Only once could he recall pulling off the expressway to shelter under a bridge because of a summer thunderstorm. Even then, he could see a quarter mile down the road. Here, he couldn’t see twenty feet.

He took one last look around him. Here, he was safe from anything sneaking up on him, but once back to walking toward the others, if something didn’t leap out at him, he could unexpectedly walk into them. Razi’s eyes widened and his head twisted back and forth a couple of times with thoughts of man-eating lions racing toward him. He raised the survival knife in his hands, twisting it slightly, as he imaged how he’d fight the lions. As long as he had the knife, it gave him comfort, though he knew he’d have to be lucky to take one of those huge man-eaters with him. Several seconds later, he dropped the hand with the knife alongside his leg as well as the other hand. He leaned motionless against the tree.
If I get out of this alive, there are parts of this tale that no one will ever know
. Even now, those lions could be sneaking up on him, hunched forward as their rear legs tensed for the leap. Lions don’t need to see their prey. They could smell him and right now, if fear could be smelled, they wouldn’t even have to sniff to smell him. They could be in Rota and smell him here in Guinea. Lions were big cats, he told himself. They hated water more than he did. Those lions, if there were any, were holed up someplace such as a cave or somewhere dry, he argued to his
fear.
National Geographic
only showed lions hunting when it wasn’t raining.

Razi took a deep breath, looking down to change the direction of the water running off his helmet and the tempo of the pounding. His flight suit was soaked. He wiggled his toes. His socks were soaked. That was all he needed. A vision of fungus growing up his foot, wrapping around his ankle and, like runaway ivy, wrapping around his leg—and up his ass to choke that five-foot worm growing inside him filled his mind. They’d better rescue him as soon as he found his sailors. Green feet and legs were another part of this tale he promised himself he would never tell his fellow chief petty officers. Fat chance of keeping it a secret if the squadron hospital corpsman chief treated him. His underwear was matted to his body. So much for the fungus vine stopping at his legs. By God, if he had to stay here a week, he’d look like the Swamp Thing when they rescued him.

A new stream of warm rain rolled down his back. The water had sneaked under the back collar of his flight suit when he had leaned forward. He brought his head upright.

He never thought there was anything that would ever scare him, and even though he knew it was his own imagination, it was as real to him as if it was fact. He shut his eyes for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths to slow down his heartbeat, forcing himself to keep control of his thoughts. It was just that he never expected to be alone. No one expects to be alone. Most survival training had to do with two- and three-man parties, evading and escaping from pursuers. The single escape always had you in the snow-covered mountains or the woods near San Diego. Not one time did they teach him what to do against man-eating lions during survival training. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Imagination
. That’s all it was, he told himself, and he concentrated on his breathing in an attempt to bring his fears under control.

Too many times in his career, he had been in life-threatening situations to believe anything new could unnerve him. He’d flown reconnaissance missions over Somalia. He’d been shot at by Iranian fighter aircraft. During Operation Enduring Freedom, he flew the first mission over Afghanistan—everyone likes to say they’re unarmed and unafraid. Even when artillery bursts were exploding around the aircraft and missile contrails stretched upward from the ground reaching toward them, marking the paths of angry weapons hell-bent on destroying them, he hadn’t been as unnerved as he was now. Being apprehensive over something you’re familiar with is a hell of a lot different than being scared—
no, unnerved was a better word,
he thought—over something you have no knowledge of how it works or thinks. But he had seen it eat on television.

All you know is what
National Geographic
shows you on television, and the last time Razi watched a show about Africa, he recalled how the lions seemed to run on their two hind legs; their paws outstretched—humongous paws with razor-sharp claws—ripping the spinal cord right out of those buffaloes even as its front legs kept on running. His teeth grinded together. Well, maybe not that graphic, but they sure brought it down, and what did he do? He sat there in his Lazy Boy rocker, drinking his third beer, and scaring the “bejesus” out of the kids with talks about lions being loose inside the naval base at Rota, Spain. He even laughed when their youngest refused to sleep in her bed because “Daddy told her lions were beneath her bed.” Virginia had not been amused.

Bad joke,
he thought. One he would never do again.
Damn, Cleo, I’m sorry Daddy scared you
.

Razi raised his eyes, looking through the lowered visor of the helmet. He froze. Several feet away squatted a small boy wearing short pants. He blinked several times, but the
boy was still there. The boy’s rib cage was molded to a tattered colorless shirt matted by the rain to the boy’s body. Razi remained perfectly still, barely breathing, his back pressing hard against the tree as if trying to crawl inside it. The apparition carried an automatic weapon, a strap across his thin shoulder, and the barrel pointing downward. Water running down the stock of the automatic and off the barrel gave the weapon its own miniature waterfall. Razi had been in enough war zones to recognize an automatic weapon. He wasn’t a soldier or Marine who had to know which was which. All he knew was it fired bullets and could kill him. He knew enough about handheld weapons that it wasn’t a M-16. It looked like an AK-47, but Razi wasn’t an expert on hand weapons. He was an aircrewman who took off, flew ten hours, landed, and went home to the missus, kids, and a cold beer.

If those sailors of his hadn’t bailed out, he wouldn’t be here now, facing death a few feet away. If he’d been thinking when the command to cease bailout had been given, he wouldn’t be here. He’d be aboard Ranger 20 heading toward Monrovia, nursing a feathered engine, and sharing sea tales about the action over beers in the hotel lounge.