President Childress shook his head. “The bold-faced son of a bitch. He creates a crisis just to give himself the opportunity to resolve it on his terms.”
“Negative to positive, sir,” Dubois replied. “And I believe that brings us up to today’s event.”
“Pretty much so, Rich.” The Secretary of State swiveled his chair to fully face the head of the table. “Mr. President. This morning, an official note was delivered to the State Department by the Liberian ambassador, stating his government’s intent to form a political confederation with the occupied state of Sierra Leone. As of seven A.M., Washington time, the individual states of Liberia and Sierra Leone ceased to exist. There is now only the West African Union, with its capital in Monrovia. Included in the note was a request from the Belewa regime for formal recognition of the new government, another request that we close our embassy in Freetown, and assurances that the West African Union desires only the best of relations with the United States.”
“Damn! Belewa isn’t wasting any time, is he?”
“He never does, Mr. President,” Dubois responded. “Not when it comes to organizing and solidifying his power base.”
The frown on President Childress’s face deepened. “I can state this for the book right now. This administration will recognize no territorial gains by any nation brought about by military aggression. Not on any grounds. Not under any justification. You can inform the Liberian ambassador of that point, Harry. You can also inform him that our embassy in Freetown stays open.”
Van Lynden nodded, giving a slight smile. “I thought you’d feel that way about it, sir.”
“That stated, what else can we do about this?”
Van Lynden and Dubois exchanged glances. “Speaking frankly, sir,” the Secretary of State replied, “not a whole hell of a lot. We’ve had an arms and tech embargo in place against the Belewa regime ever since he seized power in Liberia, and a further expansion of monetary or trade restrictions against Liber — excuse me, the West African Union — would likely hurt the general populace more than it would the government.”
“Is there any potential risk to American citizens inside of Union territory?”
“There is none apparent, Mr. President,” Dubois replied. “Belewa is very careful about protecting foreign nationals in country. He wants outside investment and development in his territory. He needs the jobs and the foreign exchange.”
“Harry, what about the U.N.?”
“We might be able to get a vote of censure against the Union in the United Nations, but I doubt much more,” Van Lynden answered. “If Belewa can energize the economy of Sierra Leone the way he has with the Liberian, there will be more money to be made out of trading with the Union than there was with the two states individually. Beyond that, not too many people are going to give all that much of a damn.”
“And the West African group, ECOWAS? Do we have any idea where they’re going to stand on this?”
Dubois shook his head. “You can expect very little, Mr. President. It was an ECOWAS peacekeeping operation that put Belewa into power in the first place. The recriminations from that have left the organization nearly prostrate. Hardly anyone is talking, nobody is trusting, and there is almost no chance of anyone organizing any kind of effective counter move.”
“It sounds like you both are saying we have to accept another fait accompli.”
Van Lynden lifted his hands. “Essentially sir, yes. I don’t like to see this kind of precedent set involving a flagrant armed aggression, but even I have to say that the United States has no strategic justification for a unilateral involvement at this time. As part of a U.N. or multinational effort, that would be something else. But somebody else has got to take the first step.”
Across the table, the Assistant Secretary of State hesitated for a moment, then turned to face the President. “There is one thing we can do, sir,” Dubois said. “West Africa is literally on the bottom of the National Security Agency’s tasking list. I believe we need to focus additional intelligence-gathering assets on the region, especially on the West African Union. We need to keep an eye on Belewa, especially on where he’s headed next.”
“You think he’s going to keep going?”
“Yes sir, Mr. President, I do. The man is an empire builder. And if he continues to take ground at the rate he has been, very soon he will be a strategic concern to the United States.”
Dubois keyed the wall screen control pad again, restoring the regional map. “As you can see, Sierra Leone and Liberia, the states of the West African Union, are entirely surrounded on their landward side by two other nations, Guinea and Côte d’Ivoire. I believe that Belewa will take a year or two to stabilize his hold on Sierra Leone and then he will move against one of these two states. Probably Guinea, as it’s the weaker and less stable.”
“You sound like you think we might have an African Napoleon on our hands.”
“Possibly, Mr. President. Or an African Hitler.”
The unpaved jungle track was not made for fast driving. However, an expatriation convoy, a dozen aged and load-weary trucks and buses jammed to the limit with an unwilling human cargo, slowed the presidential command column even further. It was well after dark when the two groups of vehicles entered the perimeter of the Kilimi resettlement compound.
“Compound” was something of a misnomer. The word denotes an aspect of constructed permanence. There was nothing of permanence here. As with the other resettlement camps strung out along the Guinea border, Kilimi compound consisted of only thousands of lost and bewildered people huddled together in an area loosely defined by their patrolling guards. All that had been built were a few rude lean-tos and brush huts and a scattering of small, smoldering fires.
The previously dispossessed, some of whom had been waiting here in the forest for weeks, pressed closer to their fires, watching silently as the new arrivals were unloaded, wondering what new despairs the newcomers might be bringing with them.
Troops clustered around the refugee column, shouting, hurrying their charges out of the vehicles and herding them away into the night. One guard, impatient as an elderly man fumbled with his small bundle of possessions, lifted his rifle butt to strike.
The blow never landed. A strong hand closed on the rifle barrel and a low voice spoke out of the darkness. “Corporal. That is unnecessary.”
The corporal froze in place. He knew that voice; all who lived in the new West African Union did. “Yes, General. I am sorry.”
Premier General Obe Belewa released his grip on the rifle barrel. “Very good. In their way, these travelers are warriors of the Union, just as are you and I. They have a long, hard journey ahead of them. Let’s not make it any harder than it has to be.”
Brooding, Belewa walked on, his jungle boots scuffing the dust of the track, ignoring the cadre of guards and aides who followed at his heels. As he passed each small fire along the road, he made himself pause and study the faces revealed in the flickering light — the men, the women, the children, the old, the sick, the resigned, the angry. The people who resisted his new way and the people who supported them. He found himself wondering which among them would die.
After a time, he became aware of a hand resting on his shoulder.