“Forward,” Mojombo bellowed. “Let’s clean them out.” By the time the twenty men got to the edge of the river on both sides of the bridge, they found only the dead and two seriously wounded Army soldiers. Mojombo dispatched them both with head shots. He counted fourteen bodies.
“Dagana,” Mojombo called. The man who could run the fastest in his camp hurried up. “Run back and bring up the trucks. They should have crept up to within a quarter of a mile. Go.”
His men picked up all the Army weapons they could find, mostly older AK-47’s. They stripped all the ammunition from the bodies and took it with them. When the trucks arrived, they climbed on board.
“We won’t hit the Army building,” Mojombo said. “We’re this close and we need to get to the river. Any casualties?” One man had a bullet in his arm. Another had what looked like a broken arm.
Mojombo smiled as the trucks raced through the small village and out the other side with no opposition from the Army. Now it was only five miles to the end of the road, and the dock where their boat should be waiting for them. He had left six men with a machine gun and five AK-47’s to defend it. He didn’t think that the Army would try to capture it. He nodded. Yes. He had struck another blow for freedom of his country. Not many of the people knew about his movement, but they would. When he had enough arms and enough men, he would blow the President right out of his corrupt Administration. He looked forward to that day. But he would need some help. He knew how he could get that help, how he could get the ear of the world so everyone would know about the corrupt and murderous President Thom Kolda.
At the end of the road, the two trucks crept through the tiny village of Abuja. About fifty people lived there, and they all were supporters of Mojombo. He could see no Army trap. Then the trucks drove up near the boat. All appeared normal. He sent Dagana running toward the boat. Soon the runner blinked a small flashlight twice at the trucks. All was well.
It took them a forty minutes to load all of the matériel and food they had brought on the trucks into the boat. Then they drove the rigs into the dense jungle as far as they could and camouflaged them with cut branches and limbs. With any luck the six-by-six trucks would be there when they needed them again.
Mojombo watched their only man who had any medical training treat the man’s bullet wound, and put the other man’s broken arm in a splint and a sling. The forty-foot wooden-hulled boat pushed off from the dock and angled into the current, heading upstream. The ancient diesel engine in the hold could move them against the flow at eight knots, so it would be a long run up the Amunbo River to their camp.
Mojombo welcomed his skipper, an old sailor with many sea voyages in his log. Tansarga had been one of Mojombo’s first recruits. Mojombo eased back against the wall of the small cabin and watched out the windows as they hugged the shore to keep in the slower part of the current. Yes, he had made another successful raid. President Kolda would soon be paying more attention to him. Once, he had sent soldiers upstream to destroy Mojombo and his camp. The Army had found only an empty camp and an ambush, which resulted in fourteen Sierra Bijimi Army dead and twenty wounded from the accurate sniper fire of the hidden marksmen around the camp. The government soldiers had withdrawn at once in what turned out to be a rout.
Yes, President Kolda would send troops again, but with more caution. What Mojombo needed now was some help. Some outside assistance and plenty of worldwide publicity about his patriotic cause to free his nation from the pack of thieves, robbers, and murders who made up President Kolda’s Administration. Now his job was to get that help.
3
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock sat at the desk in his small Third Platoon office and studied the files on three officers. He needed a new second in command for the platoon. Lieutenant Ed DeWitt’s transfer had come through, moving him into command of the Second Platoon in SEAL Team Five, based right there in Coronado.
Master Chief MacKenzie had narrowed down a stack of volunteers for the position after word had gone out last week. Now Murdock read through the three. All were qualified. All had the needed rank of lieutenant (j.g.). All had good records in the black-shoe Navy and as SEALs. It would come down to the personal interviews. Two of the men were from there in Coronado. One was flying in today from NAVSPECWARGRUP-TWO in Little Creek, Virginia. He was due at the Quarterdeck at 0900. Murdock checked his watch: 0745.
He flexed his left arm. The bullet hole there still throbbed, and he wasn’t up to speed on the O course. He grabbed three ibuprofen, tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed them. It had always been easy for him to down pills.
He checked the file on the man coming in from Virginia. JG Harry Belmer, twenty-six, six-two, 205 pounds, four years as a JG. Seemed like too long. He’d been a SEAL for three years. Yeah, tougher to get promoted inside. He scanned the man’s records, including a recommendation by his current platoon leader:
“Personable, good with the men, commands respect, high leadership qualities, second-string all-American collegiate linebacker. Can follow orders, can evaluate situations well and lead his men in difficult situations. No combat experience. Has not been blooded.”
Murdock nodded. Not many SEALs did get blooded these days. With no war on, and no police action, there were few calls on the SEALs to get down and dirty. Except for Third Platoon of Seven. He leaned back, laced his fingers together behind his head, and thought about his situation. Unique. None like it in the service. Even in any of the quick-response Special Forces. His platoon was one of a kind. Direct control from the CNO. The Chief of Naval Operations had battered down the complaints from Commander Masciareli, who headed the Coronado NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE, and probably Admiral Kenner, boss of all the special war groups and the SEALs. Yeah, Murdock and his platoon were on call like a five-hundred-dollar whore, waiting to get into the field and take care of those dirty little jobs that the public could never know about but that helped to keep the good old Stars and Stripes flying.
“Morning, Skipper,” Senior Chief Sadler said.
Murdock straightened up in the chair and brought his hands down. “Senior Chief, you look like roadkill that some big dog dragged in off the highway. Are you all right?”
“Been better. The Dixieland gig lasted a little longer than usual last night. Hell, ten years ago I wouldn’t even have noticed.”
“You’re the old-timer of the platoon, Senior Chief. You have to learn to slow down a little.” Murdock chuckled. It was a running and friendly joke between them.
“This morning I could almost believe you. You and Lieutenant DeWitt going to be interviewing today as I remember. I’ll take the platoon for some training.”
“Right. Here’s the sked. The O course, then a soft-sand run down to the Kill House, and put everyone through there twice and bring me the scores. Then a swim back without fins. Should keep you busy all morning.”
“I was hoping we could get back to some basic push-pull-sit work, Commander.”
“Schedule it for the afternoon with a twelve-mile run to the antennas and back.” He peered at the senior chief. “Sure you don’t want to let Jaybird do the drill and you flake out with us here to evaluate the new JG?”
Sadler hesitated just long enough to give Murdock doubts.
“Sir, I better stay with the men. This choosing stuff is Officer Country. I’ll do what I’m best at. Just a little fog across my bow. It’ll clear and I’ll be leading the pack. Good to be back in the saddle again here, sir.” He did a snappy about-face and went into the squad room.