Joint Task Force #4: Africa (32 page)

“He should be okay now,” the doctor said. “He’s going to have a quite a scar to add to his adventures.”

“‘Adventures’ is a little strong,” Pits Conar said testily. “Chief Razi is known—” his voice trailed off when he saw everyone looking at him. He shrugged. “I just know Razi.” He turned and sauntered over to a nearby water fountain, leaving the others to their talk.

An African wearing an off-white suit entered, carrying a plastic bag. He walked over to Thomaston, whispered something to the retired lieutenant general, and handed him the bag before turning and leaving.

Thomaston looked into the bag, smiled, and handed it to
Holman. “Dick, I appreciate the cigars, but I’m afraid my cigar days are over.”

“Cigars?” Holman asked.
What in the hell is Thomaston talking about?
he thought as he took the bag. He opened and peered inside. It was a box of cigars—the kind Holman smoked. He looked up at Thomaston. “Where did you get these?”

Thomaston shrugged. “One of your officers dropped them off. Told my officer who took them that they were compliments of you. I was distinctly honored knowing how much you enjoyed them, how hard they are to find, and how well you protect them. But I could never enjoy them as much as you, and they’re way too expensive for my taste.”

Holman looked at Upmann. “My cryptologic officer,” he said.

“Admiral, we don’t know that.”

“Leo, I have never allowed facts and common sense to cloud my judgment, and I don’t intend to now.” He turned his attention back to Thomaston. “Thanks, Mr. President. I will tell my protocol officer that the idea was appreciated, but the gift was returned.”

“Now, if you have some Napa Valley wine, I doubt you’ll get that returned.”

“If I had a bottle of Napa Valley, General, I know where I would put it right now.”

AN HOUR LATER, HOLMAN WALKED INTO OF CHIEF RAZI’S
room. Over another hour later, he walked out, turning to Upmann. “Did you believe all of that?”

Upmann shook his head slowly. “I don’t know of any reason why we shouldn’t, but if half of it is accurate, the chief is a mix of John Wayne and Tarzan.”

“Or Walter Mitty. Reminds me of that chief—yeoman,
I think—who convinced everyone that he was a security expert and got his ass shot off during the Albanian riots.”

“Along with the group of VIPs he was assigned to escort.”

“It does help to know what you’re talking about and to recognize your own limitations. Few do, you know.”

The two walked out of the hospital.

“Admiral!” Captain Davidson shouted from the steps as Holman and Upmann reached the walkway.

They stopped.

“Admiral, with your permission, I want to stay and do some snooping.”

Holman stepped back up the stairs. “Mary, the
Boxer
is already heading east. This is probably the last helicopter out. If you stay, you’re going to have to make your own way back.”

“Yeah,” Upmann added. “Instead of sailing back with us, ten days across the Atlantic, most likely you’re going to have to take a ten-hour flight and meet us.”

She smiled. “Damn, Leo. The sacrifices I make sometimes. Admiral, not everything this Darin told us, and what my human intelligence network tells me, adds up. This General Ojo didn’t have a negative reputation with the populace. He didn’t have a negative reputation with the intelligence community. And, he was believed to be someone we could talk to and reason with. This General Kabaka, on the other hand, was a sadist known for torturing his victims, skinning them alive. Chief Razi tells me the slash along his chest was done by someone who told him he was going to take his skin and make a belt out of it. That resonates better with Kabaka than Ojo.” She shook her head. “There are some loose ends to tie up, and the most important ones are: Who did Chief Razi kill, and is Abu Alhaul really dead?”

Upmann and Holman exchanged glances.

“Admiral,” Davidson continued, her voice firm. “Darin is either lying or Chief Razi is confused. Chief Razi doesn’t strike me as someone who is confused. I think he may have an inclination to exaggerate his role in all of this, but I don’t think he’s lying or confused. He told me he didn’t know the name of the person he killed, but apparently, one group of armed men held guns on the original group that captured him while he choked to death the man who cut him.”

“Never heard of this Kabaka—that how you say his name?”

Davidson nodded.

“—until today.”

“Well, I have, sir. He was one of Ojo’s generals, he was known for his cruelty. The people feared him. Tales say he wore belts made from the skins of his victims. Razi wouldn’t know this, but he said the man who cut him bragged about having a white belt. This sounds like Kabaka, not Ojo.”

“Then why would Darin lie?” Holman asked.

Davidson shrugged. “I don’t know yet, sir, but if he is lying, then Thomaston’s spy is a turncoat. And the other question is why would they want everyone to think Ojo is dead?”

“He’s Liberian,” Upmann protested.

“What does that mean?”

Davidson answered, “He’s native Liberian and native Liberians have an historic hatred for Americo-Liberians, and it would be easy to see that hatred carry over to the American expatriates who took advantage of the Liberian offer of citizenship and moved here. Such a movement as the ANA would appeal to the nationalism of such a person who may feel he and his ancestors are being further denied their rightful place within Liberia.”

“And Ojo?” Holman asked.

“It could be that they believe this new person—Mumar Kabir—may be more acceptable to the larger picture,” She paused for a second. “to the larger world audience, maybe. Instead of a general leading them, maybe Ojo has changed his name to become more acceptable.”

“I would think that would be hard to hide.”

Davidson smiled. “It may not be too hard, sir. We have no photographs of this Ojo—”

“We have photographs of Kabaka?”

“No, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “We do have photographs of a General Ezeji, who we know is with Nigerian intelligence. But our Nigerian counterparts believe that the man may have turned on them. Trust no one and you won’t be disappointed seems to be their mantra.”

PITS WAITED UNTIL THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND THE OFFICERS
before walking up to the bed.

Razi looked up at him and smiled. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my best friend, the senior chief.”

Pits cleared his throat. “Badass, I owe you an apology. I have always thought you were an arrogant, grandstanding, egotistical braggart whose every word was designed to promote yourself.”

“Don’t hold back, Pits. Tell me what you really think.”

“What I really think is that I was wrong in some of those thoughts. Maybe there was some true unselfishness in your words.”

Razi’s eyes widened and he tilted his head forward. After a few seconds, he said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“All those other things about me being arrogant, grandstanding, and something egotistical—what about them?” He leaned his head back onto the pillow.

“Oh—those are still true, and it wouldn’t surprise me to discover half of what you told the admiral and the other officers were bald-faced lies.”

Razi shook his head. “You know, Pits? When I get well, I think I may have to stomp your ass.”

“Like how you took that crocodile by the tail and shoved him off the cliff? Or how you raced through the jungle, slashing your way toward the men, only to have to fight the terrorists hand-to-hand to save our sailors. Or how you broke your bonds to kill the leader of the African National Army?”

Razi nodded, a confused look on his face. “Yeah, what about them? They’re all true.”

Pits sighed, walked over to the window, turned a chair around, and straddled it, resting his hands on the back of it. “Chief Razi, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. What I do believe is that what you did was brave—foolish— but brave. It was what a good chief petty officer should and would do.” He slapped the chair. “And, I’m not sure I could have bailed out of that aircraft like you did for no reason other than taking care of your sailors.” He stood, placing his hands on his hips. “Damn! I can’t believe I said that.” He pointed at Razi. “You are a real pain in the ass and even as much as you piss me off, I can’t help but admire what you did.”

Razi smiled. “And well you should, Pits. What I did was what any good chief petty officer would have done. You think it was hard for me to bail out like that.” He nodded once. “Damn straight, it was. I knew I shouldn’t bail out, but out there—over that jungle full of things that can eat, shoot, sting, or fang you—were my sailors.” He shook his head. “Pits, I just couldn’t think of anything else except being there for them. That being said, I think you deserve
some sort of reward for recognizing what a great and wonderful human being I am. So, get me out of here and let’s go have a few beers.” He pushed himself up off the bed and threw his feet over the side. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink? And to show you that I hold no hard feelings about you being an asshole; you can buy.”

Pits laughed. “I might be having a few beers tonight; but for you, my fine modest friend, you’ll be on an EP-3E heading back to Rota. A plane is on its way to ferry you back to mommy-san and the kids. Since the rules are no drinking twelve hours before a flight, there’s no alcohol for you.”

Razi lay back down. “Look, Pits. That aircraft can’t possibly get here for six or seven hours followed by at least a two- to four-hour turnaround. I could have several beers and sleep it off before they take off.”

Pits pulled his cap from his belt, put it on his head, looked in the mirror, and exaggeratingly straightened it. “Damn, damn, damn. Looks as if the hero will have to wait until tomorrow, or possibly next week, for that cold beer.”

“No way. Virginia will meet me at the aircraft with a cooler.”

“She’ll meet you in the hospital, and without a cooler. You’re being transferred to the hospital for recuperation, Badass. Rockdale and MacGammon have been released, but Carson is still recovering.”

“How is Carson? I only caught a glimpse of him when I was fighting those ten or twelve terrorists.” He smiled. “It’s hard to keep count when they keep coming at you.”

“He had a concussion and multiple broken bones in his left leg, but he’s regained consciousness and on the road to recovery. Don’t think he’ll fly again, but doctors say he’ll be fit for shore duty.”

“What a horrible thought!”

Pits opened the door. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to find out anyway.”

“What?”

“They have put you in for the Bronze Star for your actions.”

Razi grinned. His head moved sharply from side to side as if he was silently thanking a crowd. “With a combat ‘V,’ I hope.”

Pits turned and jabbed his finger into his open mouth several times. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you, but I figured if I told you, you’d have some time to get the strutting-rooster bit out of your system before the crew arrives.”

Razi leaned his head back again onto the pillow. “Hey, Pits. Thanks, shipmate.”

Pits walked to the door, turning at the last moment. “What else are shipmates for? Oh, by the way, I told the squadron to send the aircraft with the widest hatch.”

“They’re not going to make me use a stretcher to fly back, are they?”

Pits smiled. “No, I doubt it. But there is concern that your head won’t fit through the entrance.”

Razi smiled. “I think I can handle it.”

The springs on the door pulled it closed behind Conar. Razi watched the door for moment. It moved again and one of the doctors entered, carrying a brown paper bag under his arm. “Here you are, Chief Razi,” he said, handing it to him.

Razi pulled out a warm bottle of beer. “Oh, what a great day this is, Doc. Nectar of the gods. Remind me to name my first born after you.”

“It is Liberia’s own.”

Razi twisted the cap. “Ouch, Doc.” He shook his hand a couple of times, flexing his fist. “That hurt.”

“Sorry,” the doctor said, pulling an opener from his smock’s pocket. A quick movement and the cap flew off, bouncing onto the wooden floor. He handed the open beer to Razi, who stared at it with open admiration. “You promised to tell me about the crocodiles?”

Razi nodded, looking at the young African. “And I will, Doc. It’s just that it’s a long story and this is only one beer.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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