Red river, p.23
Red River, page 23
“Normally they’d be awarded individually,” Dixon added. “And a brass band would be playing. But the war has a way of simplifying things. Congratulations, son. Wear them with pride.”
The awards came as a complete surprise to Baxter, who knew that they were the result of efforts by Captain Fenton, Captain Delgado, and Admiral Cogan.
And it was that fact, more than the medals themselves, which made his throat feel tight. “I will,” Baxter replied, and wished he could think of something more profound to say.
Dixon grinned. “That was the good news. But into every life some rain must fall. Colonel Martel? Would you be so kind as to brief the commander?”
Martel made a face. “Thanks a lot. Well, here it is.”
The legionnaire produced a newspaper which he handed to Baxter. The headline read: “PRESIDENT KABIR ABDUCTED BY BLACK AXE.”
Baxter looked from Martel to Dixon and back again. “What is Black Axe?”
“It’s a lot things,” Martel replied, “including an international crime ring, a cult, and a fraternal organization.”
“What are they after?”
“They want the government to free all of the so called ‘axemen’ now in prison.”
“How many is that?”
“Two hundred and forty-two,” Dixon replied. “In prisons all across the country.”
There was a pause in the conversation as a waiter pushed a cart into the room, and served them. The briefing continued after she left.
“Black Axe is going to kill President Kabir if the government fails to meet its demands,” Martel said. “And, judging from past executions, it won’t be pretty.”
Baxter winced. “I’m sorry to hear that. How are we involved?”
“Right to the point,” Dixon said approvingly. “Well, the government is looking for Kabir. That in spite of the fact that Black Axe says it will remove some of Kabir’s body parts if there’s a search.”
Baxter put his cup down. “Seriously? Why not release the prisoners, get the president back, and rearrest the axemen?”
“Because,” Martel replied, “now that Kabir is gone, the president of the senate, a man named Augustus Sani, is president pro tem. And, according to those in the know, Sani likes the presidency and wants to keep it.
“So, he’s bemoaning Kabir’s abduction, talking tough about crime, and doing everything he can to get Kabir killed. Like searching high and low.”
“But that isn’t all,” Dixon added darkly. “According to the CIA, Sani is tight with Chinese ambassador Ying, who may, or may not, have been involved in the previous president’s assassination. So, if Sani winds up as president, Chinese efforts to turn Nigeria into a puppet regime will be successful.”
Baxter frowned. “And you think that Squadron 2 can help?”
Martel shook his head. “That seems unlikely. But we have orders to go through the motions of searching for Kabir up along the Imo River which, according to the Nigerian government, is a hotbed of Black Axe activity.
“In fact, the Axe is said to have outposts all along the Imo River which they use to buy and sell drugs, weapons and people.”
“And while we’re doing that, the Black Axe might be hacking the president’s fingers off,” Baxter observed.
“That’s the size of it,” Dixon agreed, “I’m sorry to say. But, just as China wants to form a strong bond with Nigeria, so do we. There’s a lot of oil here.”
That was true. But Dixon’s comment bothered Baxter. It was as if the whole thing was a game.
“You’ll provide the transportation,” Martel said. “And I’ll send a platoon of legionnaires along for force protection. That will include two vehicles by the way.
“The first part of the journey will involve moving your boats overland to the Imo River. Then you’ll be on your own. Resupply will be difficult, so keep that in mind. Do you have any questions?”
“Not yet,” Baxter replied. “But I’m sure I will.”
Dixon nodded. “Yes, of course you will. Please pass the bacon.”
***
Abuja, Nigeria
The Chinese Embassy was located on Diplomatic Drive, in Abuja’s Central Business District, which put it in close proximity to Nigeria’s movers and shakers.
The embassy was housed in a cluster of bright white buildings, each of which bore touches of “happy” red paint, and were surrounded by an eight-foot security fence.
There were guards too. All of whom were Chinese nationals rather than Nigerians. They looked like maintenance workers but carried concealed weapons.
Ru Lee arrived early, because if there was anything that Ambassador Ju Ying abhorred it was tardiness, something she perceived as a sign of moral weakness. And, since Nigeria ran on “African time,” Ying’s current posting was the diplomat’s notion of hell.
After passing through security Lee made his way to the ambassador’s office, where an imperious secretary ordered him into the anteroom. Chinese Army Captain Chun Cho was seated there. “Good morning, sir,” Cho said respectfully.
Cho had a good reason to be polite. He was army. But Ru Lee worked for the Intelligence Bureau of the Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission—which every regular officer had reason to fear.
More than that, Lee’s reputation was that of a ruthless bureaucratic infighter, and a cold-blooded killer. A man known to one and all as “the Dog Master.” An appellation that Cho didn’t fully understand, but sounded scary. So, the need to chat with Lee constituted a dangerous situation, and Cho chose his words with care.
Fortunately the ordeal was soon over, as the secretary nicknamed “Dianxia” (her highness) came in to get the visitors, and escort them into Ying’s carefully curated office.
The walls were hung with photos of Ying with a variety of VIPs, including President Kabir and his predecessor. Her desk was bare except for a leather-bound day timer, a vase of carefully arranged flowers, and a Montblanc pen.
As for the ambassador herself, she was a well-dressed fifty-something, and still attractive in an aristocratic sort of way. She didn’t bother to get up.
“Good morning comrades, please take your seats. We have much to discuss.”
Lee took note of the word “comrades.” Though originally adopted by the communist party to express equality, the word had since been weaponized, and was now used to create uncertainty among the cadre regarding their status vis a vis a superior. A warning sign? Or a retro affectation? Ying was capable of both.
“You’ve heard the news regarding the Black Axe and President Kabir by now,” Ying said. “A proverb comes to mind. Jin zhao yo u jiu jin zhao zui. (Take advantage of good fortune while it is around.)
“Life seldom offers second chances,” Ying continued, “but we’ve been blessed. We set out to engineer a regime change but, due to a stroke of bad luck, Kabir survived. Our task is to correct that … Something the Black Axe may accomplish for us if we encourage them.
“With that in mind I’ll be meeting with Mr. Sani to offer our assistance. And, judging from his efforts to trigger the Black Axe—under the guise of searching for Kabir—I think he’ll be quite receptive.
“But remember this: Augustus Sani is an ex-businessman and a realist. In order for us to exert influence in the future, we must deliver something now.
“So, get out there and learn whatever you can. The location where Kabir is being held would be ideal. But failing that, get me information about Black Axe leader Milo Lawan and who, if anyone, might be able to challenge his leadership. Who knows? If Lawan fails us, maybe we can replace him. Use your contractors, use your networks, and use your brains. That will be all.”
Cho and Lee stood, bowed, and left. Neither man had been called upon to utter a single word.
***
Port Harcourt, Nigeria
Colonel Martel was correct. It would be a waste of time for Baxter to take his boats out to sea, and enter the Imo River from the Atlantic Ocean, when trucks could carry them cross-country in two hours. Assuming Baxter could successfully load his flotilla onto truck trailers, that is.
The most common length was 48 feet in Nigeria. With 53-foot trailers steadily gaining in popularity. And that’s what Baxter was going to need to transport the 53-foot-long command boat, as well as the 56-foot-long LCM, three feet of which would hang off the back end.
But, according to the French Foreign Legion logistics officer assigned to the project, all would be well once the cradles and tie-downs were prepared. A project that would consume more than a day.
In the meantime, the trucks were busy hauling the 33-foot-long Riverine Assault Boat, plus a small RIB boat, over to the Imo River. That was soon followed by tons of supplies, delivered to a boatyard with a crane large enough to swing the LCM out over the water. The Legion’s fighting vehicle made the trip under its own power.
As for fuel, that would be supplied by a local shallow-draft “oiler,” already on the Imo River. The whole thing was exhausting, even with the Legion’s assistance.
Finally, after two days of hard work, everything was in the same location and ready to go. The twenty-foot RIB headed upriver first. It was armed with an LMG. The three-man crew called their craft “The Bullet Magnet,” because it was likely to draw fire before the other vessels did.
But the RIBs actual purpose was to scout ahead—looking for obstructions, nasty currents, and shallow areas. Information that would be radioed back to the Riverine Command Boat (RCB). It was equipped with three heavy machine guns and two handheld, 40mm grenade launchers.
For obvious reasons Baxter was on the RCB, but would have preferred to ride in the RIB, where he could see things firsthand.
Following along behind the RCB was the Riverine Assault Boat (RAB). It looked like a barge, was armed with four machine guns, and was powered by twin diesels. The heavily loaded LCM came next, then the oiler, which had orders to hang back and stay clear of any firefight that might occur.
For better or worse Baxter knew that the procession would attract attention and generate widespread coverage on the informal “fish net.” So, there was a near certainty that the local Black Axe people would be aware of it.
If the axemen chose to run, that was fine with Baxter. He didn’t like the fact that Nigeria’s president pro tem was using the Deuce for political purposes.
The banks of the Imo River had been settled for a long time. Fishing villages were common, as were towns, and the slums associated with them. There were stretches of unspoiled jungle though, wild animal sightings, and occasional glimpses of the past—like the ancient sternwheeler that had been left sitting atop a riverbank during a flood.
But it was never long before a concrete bridge would appear, often topped by a gang of brightly clad youngsters, who waved as if watching a parade.
The goal for the first day was to reach a village not far from the city of Aba. According to the “hit list” furnished by the Nigerian government, the village was home to a Black Axe “trading post,” where drug deals were done and prostitutes sold their wares.
Baxter’s orders were to stop by and freeze everything in place, so the legionnaires could search the trading post for Kabir. Then if they found drugs, sums of cash, or other indications of crime, the local police would take whatever actions were appropriate. Assuming they weren’t on the take.
It was midafternoon by the time the RIB found a good landing spot downriver from the Black Axe outpost. That’s when the LCM angled in to deliver both of the Legion’s vehicles onto a gravelly beach. They included a French VBMR Griffon, and a smaller Panhard VBL.
Baxter was there to see Lieutenant Dupont off. “You know where you’re going?”
Dupont nodded. “Yes, sir. Straight onto the river road, follow it north for four miles, and turn left. The trading post includes a bar called Mobi’s. Meanwhile, you’ll arrive in the RCM.”
Baxter grinned. “Exactly. I’ll see you there. Remember, park half a mile away. We want to catch the axemen by surprise.”
Thanks to frequent radio communications Baxter was able to coordinate with the French vehicles and pull up next to the village’s dock at exactly the right moment. Switch backing stairs led up to a platform.
Baxter had four armed Riverines, who had his back, plus two legionnaires. That, and the seven legionnaires accompanying Dupont, should be sufficient. If not, the fighting vehicles would be brought into town where their machine guns would even the odds.
A horrible stench assailed Baxter’s nostrils as he topped the stairs. At first, he thought it was the mound of smoldering garbage piled on top of the riverbank. Then, as he arrived at the bottom of a dead-end street, the truth became apparent. Wings fluttered as vultures took to the air.
The scavengers were full, having gorged on dead bodies for hours, and some had trouble getting airborne. A sailor gagged and paused to throw up. Baxter didn’t blame him.
What remained of the bird-ravaged bodies was the worst thing he’d ever seen. Think, Baxter told himself, as he brought an arm up to cover his nose. Who are these people? And why were they killed?
The first thing he noticed was that the remains were in a wavy line. As if they’d been forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and shot execution style. The second thing Baxter realized was that all of the victims were female. Eleven in all.
“They were whores,” a voice said. “The axemen killed them.”
Baxter turned to find a wizened black man who was standing a few feet away. “Why?”
The other man shrugged. “I don’t know for sure,” he answered. “But, if I had to guess, I’d say that the axemen were afraid that the women knew too much. So, they were killed.”
Baxter extended his hand. “I’m Commander Leo Baxter, United States Navy. Where are the police?”
“My name is Wilbur Kwento,” the man said. “I’m the mayor. The axemen cut the phone lines, and we don’t have cell service. I sent my first son to fetch the police. He has a motorbike.”
Dupont arrived at that point and made a face. “Mon Dieu. Ce sont des animaux.” (My God. They’re animals.) And, I’m sorry to say that there’s another body.”
Baxter followed Dupont up the street, past Milo’s bar, to a one-story wood building with a large cross on top of it. A man was nailed to it. “That’s Father Evans,” Kwento explained. “The axemen believe in a god called Korofo. Father Evans taught us to believe in the one true God. The axemen didn’t like him.”
That was the moment when Milo’s bar exploded. A loud BOOM was heard, followed by an orange-red explosion. Pieces of fiery debris soared into the air, and the resulting pressure wave knocked Baxter off his feet. His head hit a rock and the world went black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Abuja, Nigeria
President Kabir was being held in a room furnished with nothing more than a dusty couch, a blanket, and a rolling chair. All of which were left behind when its owner went broke— thus adding the high-rise to a cluster of “orphan” buildings in central Abuja.
Because Kabir couldn’t access a radio, television, or the internet, he had no idea what was going on now that Senator Sani was in charge of Nigeria’s government.
Nothing good, Kabir assumed. The bastard opposed everything that Amobi and I wanted for Nigeria. His security company profits off crime, his bank makes money off predatory loans, and his political party accepts donations from the Chinese. And he’s the man I must rely on to rescue me.
There were two knocks on the door. A courtesy in case Kabir was crouched over his five-gallon bucket-toilet.
Mfon Jimoh’s visits were the only thing Kabir had to look forward to. Even though Mfon worked for the Black Axe, she wasn’t part of it, and clearly felt sorry for him.
The door opened and Mfon entered. A guard stuck his head in, took a quick look around, and withdrew.
Mfon was beautiful in an unassuming way. She wore her hair pulled back into cornrows, her eyes were big, and her lips were full. If Mfon was wearing makeup Kabir couldn’t detect it.
“Good afternoon!” Mfon said cheerfully. “How are you? Hungry? I brought your lunch.”
According to Mfon, Kabir’s meals were prepared by one of the women who lived down on the first floor, and they were invariably good. “I’m doing my best,” Kabir replied. “And how is Mfon?”
“Today is my birthday,” Mfon announced brightly. “And tonight, after I bring your dinner, there will be a party at my brother’s house. He’s a veterinary assistant.”
“That’s wonderful!” Kabir said. “I wish I could be there.”
“The president!” Mfon exclaimed. “At my party! Everyone would be impressed.”
The door opened and the guard appeared. Mfon placed the tray on the couch and turned away. The moment of pleasure was over.
***
Dema, Nigeria
A voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Commander Baxter? Can you hear me?”
Baxter’s mouth was bone dry. He managed a croak.
“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes,’ ” the voice said. “You hit your head. But you’re going to be okay.”
That explained the pain. Baxter remembered an explosion and nothing more. He tried to sit up, uttered a groan, and felt hands under his armpits.
“Take him to the command boat,” Lieutenant Dupont ordered. “And put him on a bunk. I’ll take the vehicles back to the same beach where they came ashore. Tell the PO in charge of the LCM that we’re on the way. Oh, and post sentries.”
He’s doing the right things, Baxter thought. But I should tell him to … Sleep pulled him down.
***
Abuja, Nigeria
Kabir was dozing when Mfon returned. A knock woke him. The door opened, the guard stepped in, then withdrew.
Mfon entered with a cloth-covered tray held in both hands. Her usual cheerful demeanor was nowhere to be seen. “What’s wrong?” Kabir demanded.
“I’m afraid for you,” Mfon replied. “The axemen were talking. They said that Mr. Lawan is angry. Rather than agree to Black Axe demands, Senator Sani ordered the police to find you! So, the axemen are going to chop one of your fingers off tomorrow, and send it to a newspaper.”
