Sea Fighter

Origin

Liberia.

Once it had been the oldest participatory democracy on the African continent, maintaining a Constitution and Bill of Rights modeled upon that of the United States. Once its economic growth rate had been second only to that of Japan. Once its John F. Kennedy Hospital had been honored as one of the most modem and sophisticated medical research facilities in the Third World.

Once, Liberia had been a nation.

The Land Rover roared through the rank, tropic night, following the potholed pavement that climbed Mamba Point. In the darkness beyond the fan of the vehicle’s headlights, there was scuttling movement. Shadowy forms sprang aside off the road, seeking deeper pools of night to hide in. Other figures huddled animal-like in the shanties and half-ruined buildings that lined the trash-strewn street.

In recent years, the citizens of Monrovia had learned that the people with the cars were also frequently the people with the guns. Likewise, they had found that those guns were often used for no more reason than to make blood spray.

Fear was not a factor restricted to pedestrians, however. The Nigerian soldier manning the Land Rover’s pintle-mounted Bren gun was nervous as well. He traversed the muzzle of the weapon in short nervous arcs, covering the road-sides ahead. Death frequently walked abroad in the streets of Liberia’s ruined capital. You never knew when he might step out from around a corner to greet you.

The howl of the Land Rover’s engine faded to a grumble as it rolled to a halt in front of what had been Monrovia’s Masonic Hall. Dismounting from the doorless 4 × 4, Captain Obe Belewa issued a short, curt command. “Keep your engine running, Corporal.”

Clad in the same worn jungle camouflage as his men, the tall African army officer double-timed past the bullet-chipped statue of some long-ago Liberian Grand Master and up the marble steps to the entryway of the massive old building. The cracked Ionic columns guarding the portico glowed palely in the starlight, like part of some ancient Roman ruin.

ECOMOG (the Economic Community of West African States Military Observation Group) had taken over the building as its headquarters. A pair of lax sentries at the doorway fumbled to attention as Captain Belewa stormed past them, not bothering to reply to their hasty salutes.

A single generator-powered safety light illuminated the looted and stripped reception hall. One of the staff lieutenants attached to Headquarters Company sat at a gray metal field desk, reading a British sports magazine by its pulsing light.

“I need to talk to Colonel Eba,” Belewa demanded, looming out of the shadows beyond the desk. “Now!”

Startled, the duty officer dropped his magazine, recoiling under the intensity of the speaker’s words.

Broad-shouldered, hard-muscled, and grimly handsome, Belewa was an impressive figure under normal circumstances. Now, with his face set and the fires of rage burning behind his dark eyes, he was beyond impressive and well into frightening.

The duty officer knew that the Browning automatic pistol and the razor-honed jungle knife on the Captain’s belt were not mere symbols of authority. They were the arms of a warrior, well-maintained and ready for instant use. The same could be said of the mechanized infantry company Belewa commanded. It was freely acknowledged to be an elite unit, the best formation of the battalion and of the Observation Group. Some dared whisper even of the entire Nigerian army.

Captain Belewa also had the reputation of being a very bad man to cross.

“The Colonel is off duty, sir,” the lieutenant stammered. “He has left instructions not to be disturbed unless it is an emergency.”

Belewa’s fist slammed down onto the desktop with an oil canning boom. “Then consider this an emergency! I will speak with Colonel Eba now!”

The duty officer hastily summoned a runner to guide Belewa to the Colonel’s quarters. The lieutenant knew that in doing so, he would draw the eventual ire of his battalion commander down upon himself. However, at the time, that seemed the lesser of the two evils.

Belewa followed his guide up the curve of the grand stair-way to another patch of generator light on the second floor of the vast old structure. Like most of Monrovia’s major buildings, the Masonic Temple had long before been pillaged of everything that could be stolen, down to the doors themselves, and the illumination leaked from around a cloth curtain drawn across an empty entryway.

The sound of music and women’s laughter also issued from behind the curtain.

Responding to the summons of the runner, Colonel Eba stepped out into the shadows of the hall. Belewa caught a glimpse inside the Colonel’s quarters as the curtain was drawn aside. Several of the other Battalion officers lounged there, along with a couple of young Liberian women. Attractive women, clad in bright, cheap dresses, who swayed in time to the rhythmic Nigerian Afro-Pop issuing from a tape player.

Eba was a heavyset man, thickening toward a stoutness that pulled his camouflage fatigues taut. In one hand he carried a coffee mug half-filled with whiskey. “What’s this about, Captain?” he demanded, scowling.

Belewa held at a rigid parade rest, his eyes focused over the head of the squat Eba. “Sir, I have received word from one of my scouting teams that the village of Simonsville, fifteen kilometers northeast of the city, is under attack by an unidentified armed force. I have sent two reports concerning this event to this headquarters.”

“We thank you for your efficiency in bringing this matter to our attention, Captain,” Eba replied archly. “I am sure I will be most interested in reading your reconnaissance reports in the morning.”

“Sir,” Belewa continued lowly, “I also dispatched two requests for the release of the Mobile Reaction Force to respond to this event. I’ve received no answer to either request.”

“Perhaps that is because none was required.” Eba took a sip of whiskey from his mug. “Simonsville is on your morning patrol route. You can check the situation out then. There’s no sense in our people tearing about in the darkness chasing rumors.”

“Sir, this is not a rumor! I have a scout team on a hill over looking Simonsville now. The village is being torn to pieces! I can have my men there in twenty minutes!”

“No, Captain, no.” Eba chuckled patronizingly. “You young bull officers are all the same. Always prone to charge at every little sound in the bush. That’s not proper military thinking. We must not waste our strength by becoming involved in every little squabble the locals have.”

The Colonel chuckled again and took another sip from his cup. “Remember, Belewa. We are here as a peacekeeping force. How would it look if we go about getting into fights all of the time.”

“I thought we were here to help these people.” Belewa made no effort to control the contempt in his voice.

Eba’s face hardened. “You are here to obey my orders, Captain. You may investigate these events in Simonsville on your morning patrol and not one moment sooner. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand very well.”

The sky was barely touched with pink in the east when the column of Land Rovers and Steyr 4K-7 armored personnel carriers roared into Simonsville. But by then it was far, far too late.

There had never been much to the little village, just a small cluster of huts and shanties along a dirt track, surrounded by upland rice fields and the low scrub left behind by logging and slash-and-burn agriculture. Now only ashes remained. Ashes and a few guttering remnants of flame curling around blackened frames of buildings.

There had been people here, though. Their remnants had been left behind as well. Charred forms lay in the wreckage, twisted grotesquely, frozen in midwrithe. The nude body of a young woman stood nailed in place against the last intact wall of the village. Given the extent of the bloodstains, she had been alive as the nails had been driven home. However, some one eventually had granted the girl as much mercy as could be found out in that scarlet night. Her head had been stricken from her shoulders with a blow from a machete.

Possibly the attackers had been part of Charles Taylor’s National Patriotic Front of Liberia. Or possibly it had been one of the splinters of the United Liberation Movement of Liberia for Democracy. Or an element of “Prince” Yormie Johnson’s Independent Patriotic Front, or remnants of the dead President Samuel Doe’s Armed Forces. Following the Taylor-Doe civil war and the collapse of the Liberian government, a dozen different factions had sprung up to gnaw at the corpse of the fallen nation. Each was little more than a loosely organized armed rabble, hiding its inhumanity behind a high sounding name.

Somewhere, a child cried, not with the cry of a child but with the agonized shrieks of a small, trapped animal in agony. Possibly the men who had created this carnage had a valid reason for annihilating Simonsville. More than likely, however, they didn’t.

Seated in the front seat of the command Land Rover, Captain Belewa snarled his orders into his radio handset. “All elements deploy by the action plan! First Platoon — establish a security perimeter! Second Platoon — search the village for survivors! Weapons platoon, set your pickets around the vehicles and get the aid station established! Third Platoon — start a sweep beyond the village area! Look for any of the wounded or injured who may have crawled off into the bush! Move!”

Carrying their long-barreled FALN assault rifles at port arms, the Nigerian mobile troopers dismounted and streamed away on their assigned tasks. Commanding the company’s headquarters section, Lieutenant Sako Atiba was kept busy for several minutes inside the Steyr communications track, notifying ECOMOG headquarters of their arrival and establishing the tactical radio net with the platoon leaders.

With those tasks accomplished, the compact and panther lean young officer stepped down the tail ramp of the big Austrian-built APC. Walking forward along the line of parked vehicles, he went to report personally to his commanding officer, military mentor, and friend.

A faint morning breeze stirred the humid air, but it served only to stir the miasma of corruption, burnt flesh, and charred wood. This was something Atiba had long ago learned about serving in Liberia. You could never get away from the evil, sweet scent of the dead. Perhaps that was the cause of some of the savagery that had infected this land. You inhaled death with every breath. A Housa tribesman, native to Nigeria’s Sahel uplands, Atiba sometimes dreamed at night of the dry, clean winds blowing in from the Sahara.

Approaching the command Land Rover, Atiba was surprised to find Captain Belewa sitting in the vehicle, looking out across the burned-out funeral pyre that was Simonsville. The tall warrior still had the radio microphone gripped in his left hand. The right, though, was clinched tightly into a pale knuckled fist, a fist that beat slowly and deliberately against the heavy metal of the Land Rover’s dashboard. Atiba was even more surprised to see the tears streaming from his company commander’s eyes.

“We have got to stop doing this to ourselves, Sako,” Obe Belewa murmured tightly. “We have got to stop doing this!”

“Ann, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Ian. Quite well.”

“Very good. We have our satellite phone set up here on the roof of the Ambassador Hotel. We’re still attempting to establish our video link. Not much luck yet, I’m afraid. Until then, we’ll try to describe what’s been going on here in Monrovia since this morning’s… incident.”

“What is happening, Ian?”

“Honestly, not a great deal that we can see. Our hotel is on the beach near the British Embassy and we are looking north toward Mamba Point and the Mamba Point Hotel, the current seat of the provisional Liberian ruling council. This appeared to be the focal point of the heavy gunfire that broke out shortly before dawn this morning. Nothing much is happening now…. There is a faint haze of smoke around the tall, white hotel building… that appears to be all.”

“Have there been any other outbreaks of fighting in the area, Ian?”

“We’ve heard rumors of some gunfire around both the ECOMOG base outside of the city and at the Barclay Training Center, the headquarters of the Liberian Armed Forces. We have not been able to verify this, however. There is a security cordon thrown up around the hotel, and none of the press here have been able to get into the field yet today.”

“Do you feel that you are in any danger, Ian?”

“No, not really. Everything seems quite calm, quite orderly, much as it has been here in Monrovia for the past couple of months. A very polite officer from the ECOMOG forces came through and assured everyone that this lockdown is only temporary and that there will be a press briefing on recent developments sometime later today…. By the way, that sound you might be hearing is a Nigerian Army helicopter circling over the city. It has a loud-hailer system working, advising the populace to remain calm and stay off the streets. The same essential message is also being broadcast by KISS, the Monrovia radio station, interspersed with the usual African pop.”

“What do you think is taking place, Ian? You’re our World Services man in Liberia.”

“I honestly don’t know, Ann. We’ve had a couple of extremely quiet months here. It actually looked as if the long Liberian nightmare was over. The cease-fire between the Liberian Military and ECOMOG forces and the remaining rebel factions upcountry seemed to have been holding. There were ongoing negotiations to form a permanent representative government and to draft a new constitution…. Brigadier Belewa, the ECOMOG force commander and a most remarkable man, has been working tirelessly for a permanent end to this long-festering conflict. I hope this isn’t a setback for the very successful and enlightened policies he’s been putting into play here.”

“Ian. We’ve been in touch with our man in Lagos. He reports that the Nigerian government has been out of communication with both the ECOMOG garrison and the ECOWAS headquarters in Monrovia since late last night. They are apparently also in the dark about what may be happening there in Liberia.”

“Ann, there is one thing I can comment on. We have seen a number of military patrols in the downtown area… peace keeping patrols, I gather. They all seem to be conformed in the same way: six men, three teams of two. One of the patrols is below us in the street now. Two of the soldiers are obviously Nigerians from the ECOMOG forces, while two of the others appear to be Liberian army. The last pair are armed but in civilian clothing… a rather ragged-looking couple of individuals… I have no idea who they may belong to. One of the lads here suggests that they might be members of one of the rebel factions. I’m not sure how that could be.”

“Ian?… Ian?”

“Stand by, Ann. We have something here… Ah, we have a development… I have just been handed a flyer that was delivered to our rooms a few moments ago. It’s a notification of a press conference to be held at ECOMOG headquarters this afternoon. The purpose of the conference is to, and I quote, ‘clarify recent events taking place within Liberia for the world community’… Bloody hell!”

“What is it, Ian?”

“This document. It’s signed ‘Brigadier Obe Belewa, Premier General of the Liberian Union.’”

Private Jeremy Makeni yawned mightily and tried to defy the overwhelming urge to sleep. Lance Corporal Rupert, the soldier who shared the night’s sentry duty at the Port Master’s dock, had surrendered to sleep an hour before. Stretched out and snoring with his head propped on a coil of rope, the corporal relied on luck or Private Makeni to wake him before their relief showed up at six o’clock.

Granted that they showed up at all. The personnel of the Freetown garrison force were lax about such things, even as the fighting raged inland and on the eastern border.

Angrily, Makeni straightened and again began to pace the sentry-go he had set for himself. Was he not a soldier, even if only guarding a rickety wooden pier miles from the battle line?

When the notice had come calling him to national service, Jeremy had been overjoyed. At last, here was something better than working in his father’s chophouse. At last, an opportunity to do something more than sweeping floors and washing kettles. At seventeen, a chance to be a man instead of a boy.

Pausing at the head of the pier, Jeremy looked out across the darkened waters of Kroo Bay and listened to the sluggish lap of the waves against the pilings. His father hadn’t understood, of course. He couldn’t see that it was time for his son to grow up. Jeremy caught him trying to pay dash to the government man to have Jeremy’s name taken from the list.

He and his father had argued then. Not as father and son, but as one man with another, with men’s anger and pride for the first time. They had not spoken since.

Jeremy still suspected that money had changed hands behind his back somewhere, however. Instead of being sent to the troubles up around the refugee camps or to defend against the Liberian threat, he had been assigned here after completing his month’s training. To the fat and sleepy Freetown garrison.

Out in the bay, the lights of an anchored ship cast glimmering golden streaks across the oily water. It had not been there when Jeremy had come on duty. It was common for a vessel arriving in Freetown after dark to anchor in the road-stead. The pilot would go out in the morning to collect his fee and his dash, and the harbormaster, after doing the same, would clear the vessel to dock.

Jeremy turned and began to pace back down the worn planking, stepping over Corporal Rupert’s sprawled legs. Damn! Why couldn’t his father have left well enough alone! The fighting had begun and here he was, stuck in the city, four blocks from where he had grown up!

Jeremy’s steady footsteps faltered. The fighting had begun. And maybe soon enough it would come to him. The government boasted about the victories they were winning in the field, but the rumors didn’t match up. There was a battle going on out along the Kenema highway, and no one had heard anything from upcountry in days.

In such times, maybe it was not such a good thing for him and his father to also be at odds. After all, his father did remember the bad days back during the civil war. And who could blame a parent for worrying about an only son?

Jeremy Makeni grinned, his smile flashing in the darkness. After he was relieved on duty this morning, what would happen if he walked into his father’s cafe and called for his favorite breakfast of benchi and bread. After arguing as two men, perhaps now they could also sit and talk and laugh as two men. Still smiling, Jeremy turned.

Abruptly, the smile left his face.

A steely smear of dawn showed in the sky, revealing a long row of shadows slinking toward the harbormaster’s pier. Over the lap of the waves and Corporal Rupert’s snoring, Jeremy heard the mutter of a throttled-down engine. And beyond the swampy miasma of the shoreline, he smelled the metallic exhaust of an outboard motor.

A launch of some kind, long and low and painted to match the darkness, was creeping in from the bay. Towed behind it were a string of smaller rubber boats, each loaded with a huddled mass of men. The first hint of daylight gleamed on a rifle barrel.

Jeremy yelled out a startled, wordless cry of warning as he struggled to unsling his old bolt-action Enfield. Sleep-dazed Corporal Rupert sprang to his feet, his weapon lying forgotten on the pier decking. An instant later twin daggers of flame lanced out from the bow of the launch, the converging tracer streams shredding the noncom and flinging him aside.

Exposed for the first time to the realities of war, Jeremy Makeni froze. He was never given the instant he needed to recover. The dual-mount machine guns raked the length of the pier and something smashed into the young soldier’s chest.

He fell beside Corporal Rupert, a lingering fragment of warrior’s pride keeping his hand closed on the stock of his rifle. Jeremy’s eyes no longer responded to the growing glow of the sun, but faintly, he heard a man speaking. For a last moment, he thought it was his father’s voice.

Yelling their deep-toned battle cries, the Liberian soldiers streamed up from the pier float, ignoring the two bloodstained bodies sprawled on the upper deck. Forming into assault teams, they stormed the streets of the city, en route to their assigned objectives. It was a scene being repeated a dozen times over along the waterfront as the seizure of Sierra Leone’s capital gained momentum. Over all, recorded words thundered repetitively from a bank of loudspeakers aboard the invasion transport.

“PEOPLE OF FREETOWN! STAY IN YOUR HOMES! STAY OUT OF THE STREETS! LIBERATION HAS COME! SOLDIERS OF SIERRA LEONE! LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS! YOU ARE OUR BROTHERS! WE WISH YOU NO HARM!”

The indirect lighting in the White House briefing room dimmed. The two-meter-wide flatscreen set into the cherry paneling of the wall flicked on, displaying a computer graphics map of the African continent for the three people seated at the central conference table.

Secretary of State Harrison Van Lynden turned in his chair to face the man at the head of the table. “To begin, sir,” the graying New Englander said, “I believe that a brief review of the situation in the crisis zone would help to put today’s developments in perspective. With your permission, Mr. Dubois, our Undersecretary for African Affairs, will walk us through the recent events in the region.”

Benton Childress, the forty-fourth President of the United States, nodded. “Very well, Harry. Carry on, Mr. Dubois. Whatever you think we need to know.”

“Thank you, sir.” A fit-looking black man in his late thirties, Richard Dubois scowled a scholar’s thoughtful scowl as he keyed a command into the wall screen control pad. The north-west quadrant of the map windowed up, filling with a view of the great West African peninsula jutting out into the Atlantic.

“West Africa, gentlemen,” he began. “To say that this is an unstable and troubled region would be a cataclysmic under statement. Although potentially rich in natural resources, eight out of the world’s ten most impoverished nations are located here. Although hundreds of millions of foreign-aid dollars have been expended in the region, it still contains eight out of the world’s ten national populations with the shortest average life expectancy. Massive governmental corruption is rife. The military coup is the accepted method of changing administrations, and for the past two decades total anarchy has been commonplace.”

Childress nodded thoughtfully. “According to my family’s genealogy, some of my people may have come from over there. Only from a little farther north, near Mali.”

“Many of our ancestors did, sir,” Dubois agreed. “Mine came from farther east, we think from around Ghana. This region was the focus of the western Atlantic slave trade. The coastal chiefs grew rich raiding other tribes hundreds of miles inland, keeping the barracoons full for the European traders.”

Van Lynden gave a brief snort of grim laughter. “If you want a touch of irony here, one of my ancestors has a connection with the area as well. He was a rather notorious Dutch sea captain who built himself something of a reputation as a blackbirder. A few centuries ago, our families might all have met under somewhat different circumstances.”

Dubois touched the display control again, and once more the screen image zoomed in on the western underbelly of the peninsula. “Here is the heart of the current crisis, the neighboring coastal states of Liberia and Sierra Leone. Both nations share a unique heritage. Both were founded in the early nineteenth century by freed black African slaves from North America. Sierra Leone as a British Crown colony in the year 1808. Liberia in 1822 as an independent nation with support from abolitionist factions within the United States.

“As a result, both use English as their official language and both have a distinctive Anglo-American flavoring to their national cultures. The governments of both nations were also established around the basic principles of Western-style democracy. That, however, didn’t take quite so well.”

Van Lynden crossed his arms and sank deeper into the leather of his conference chair, a frown coming across his angular “down north” features. “At one time I recall that both countries were considered model states among the emerging Third World nations.”

“Very true, Mr. Secretary,” Dubois agreed. “Sierra Leone gained full independence from Great Britain in 1961. Both it and Liberia had stable governments, growing economies, and reasonably good civil rights records for the region. Unfortunately, things began to go wrong. Large-scale pocket-lining on the part of governmental officials and a catastrophic brush with socialism bled the life out of the regional economy. This, combined with conflicts and favoritism among the tribal factions within both nations, soon led to large-scale unrest and disaffection.

“Both countries fell into a descending spiral of coup and civil war, each new regime coming into power proving to be worse than the one it had replaced. The government of Sierra Leone managed to maintain some semblance of national order, mostly thanks to the South African mercenaries hired to put down their last wave of revolts. Liberia, however, sank into total chaos.”

“That I remember,” President Childress commented. “Wasn’t the death of one of the Liberian presidents, Samuel Doe, I believe, videotaped and distributed by his executioners?”

“Yes, sir, in September of 1990 by the forces of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia, the Charles Taylor faction. Only, it wasn’t an execution, Mr. President. President Doe was tortured to death. Mr. Taylor himself personally officiated.”

“Lord, that was a bad one,” Van Lynden murmured. “I remember the U.S. took some flak for not intervening at the time. Frankly, though, we couldn’t find a single faction in the whole damn place that we felt we could support. In the end, we used the Marines to evacuate our embassy staff and the other foreign nationals who were in-country and then just let the chips fall where they may.”

Dubois nodded. “The organization that eventually did intervene was ECOWAS, the Economic Community of West African States. In response to the crisis, ECOMOG, the ECOWAS Military Observation Group, was established. This was a body of peacekeeping troops deployed into Liberia by the ECOWAS membership with the intent of stabilizing the area and allowing the formation of a new Liberian government.

“While involving contingents from the various ECOWAS states, ECOMOG was primarily made up of Nigerian forces. Putting it bluntly, its performance was lackluster. Or at least it was until Brigadier Belewa assumed command.”

Dubois called up the next preprogrammed image in the briefing system, that of a tall, powerfully built black man in camouflage fatigues and field cap. Photographed against the backdrop of a shattered building, he stood with hands on hips, stern features set as if in thought.

“Brigadier General Obe Belewa, late of the Nigerian Army,” Dubois continued. “Age forty-two. Born in the city of Oyo in western Nigeria. His tribal affiliation is Yoruba. Perhaps from them he inherited his talents as an empire builder. During the precolonial age, the Yoruba ruled one of the largest and most powerful of the West African kingdoms.

“The General was educated at Sandhurst and at the University of Ibadan. A truly remarkable individual, he was considered one of the rising stars in the Nigerian military, right up until he disowned his country to take over another.”

“I still wonder just how he pulled that one off,” the President commented.

“By a combination of guts, will, and a feat of covert statesmanship that would have made Machiavelli proud,” Dubois replied. “Belewa attended a number of service schools here in the United States, including both the Army’s Special Forces course at Fort Bragg and the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth. His instructors unanimously agree that the man is a brilliant strategist and tactician.

“It must have taken him years to set up the coup. We know that he volunteered repeatedly for service with the ECOMOG garrison in Liberia. With each tour of duty he must have picked up more contacts and established more links within both the provisional Liberian government and military and the various rebel factions back in the bush. As he grew in rank, he also began to maneuver a carefully handpicked cadre of officers and NCOs into the garrison force, disaffected military personnel who owed more allegiance to Belewa personally than they did to the Nigerian government.

“Eventually, Belewa was named commander of the ECOMOG garrison. Using the power inherent in that position, he began to bring about real change within Liberia. He decisively suppressed corruption and random violence, he got food and medical aid out to the rural areas, and he restarted the national economy. In doing so, he drew the loyalty of the Liberian people, not to Nigeria or the provisional Liberian government, but to himself.”

“Wasn’t his being a Nigerian, an outsider, a problem?” President Childress inquired.

“No, sir,” Dubois replied with a shake of his head. “Belewa turned it into an advantage. He was a man outside of all the tribal conflicts and the interfactional hatreds. He became trusted and respected because he was scrupulously honest and even-handed at all times to all the involved parties. He also never made a promise that he couldn’t deliver.

“As the talks between the provisional government and the leadership of the rebel groups wrangled on, Belewa conducted a second level of covert negotiations with the dissatisfied lower echelons of both factions. Then, roughly three years ago, when he had all of the pieces in place, he struck.

“The leadership of both the provisional Liberian government and of the majority of the rebel groups were wiped out in a coordinated revolt, all factions then swearing allegiance to General Belewa. The Nigerian ECOMOG garrison also mutinied, declaring for Belewa as well. Overnight, he went from army officer to the leader of his own nation.”

Dubois deactivated the screen and turned back to face the table. “To say the least, there was a convulsion within the ECOWAS community. Nigeria attempted a degree of saber rattling at the new Liberian regime and its leader, but nothing much came of it. They realized that if they attempted an invasion, they’d be looking down the gun barrels of both their own elite military units and a large and hostile guerrilla army. Belewa’s takeover became accepted as a fait accompli.”

“You know,” Van Lynden said thoughtfully, “you have to admire the man’s guts.”

“There’s more than that to admire about the man, Mr. Secretary. He’s turned out to be an extremely resourceful, intelligent, and dynamic leader. In only three years he has turned a total basket case of a nation into an ordered, stable, and growing society. In many ways, he is doing exactly what needs to be done in the region. He is suppressing corruption, he is seeing to the welfare of the majority of his population, and he is rebuilding the economic infrastructure of Liberia. Unfortunately, he is also a hard-core military dictator with a taste for conquest.”

The wall screen flicked on once more, this time displaying a large-scale map of Sierra Leone. “Around the first of this year, the government of Sierra Leone began to report a sudden mass exodus of refugees coming across their border with Liberia. This exodus eventually grew into a flood of over a quarter of a million human beings, deluging the border areas.

“The Liberian government claimed that they were disaffected individuals who had left a number of resettlement communities being developed near the border. The refugees said that they had been driven into Sierra Leone at bayonet point.”

“Where did these refugees all come from, Rich?” Van Lynden inquired, frowning. “I mean, from within Liberia.”

“No government is ever entirely popular with all of its citizens, Mr. President. The refugees are members of the Liberian tribal groups and political factions that did not support the Belewa takeover. When they began to organize a resistance against his regime, Belewa reacted with mass deportations from the rebellious sectors. Entire villages and urban neighborhoods were emptied. Men, women, and children, anyone even suspected of harboring anti-Union sympathies, were swept up into the DP camps and then pushed across the border, their goods and properties being given over to Union supporters.”

President Childress removed his glasses and thoughtfully began to polish the lenses. “He must have read Chairman Mao’s dictum that the guerrilla is a fish swimming in an ocean of peasants. Belewa’s countermove against revolution was to drain the ocean.”

“Much as Milosevic attempted in Kosovo back in ’99. But Belewa took things one step further. Not only did he end his internal dissension, but by releasing this human flood on the neighboring state least able to cope with it, he succeeded in weakening and disrupting that nation to an even greater extent.”

Van Lynden nodded. “Again turning a negative into a positive… to his way of thinking, at any rate.”

“That is Belewa’s style,” Dubois agreed. “Sierra Leone was totally unable to deal with this massive influx of refugees. They couldn’t even adequately feed and house their own population. Naturally the U.N. and the International Red Cross moved in, attempting to set up and supply refugee camps in the border regions. However, simultaneously with the arrival of the refugees, there was a sudden flare-up of guerrilla activity inside of Sierra Leone. A series of attacks were launched against transport facilities, food-distribution centers, and communications lines. Everything that was needed to deal with the refugee crisis was targeted, compounding the problem.”

“How convenient for certain parties,” Van Lynden commented dryly.

“Did these attacks originate from some group inside of Sierra Leone, or was this an outside insurgency?” the President asked, redonning his glasses.

“No conclusive evidence was ever collected either way. The Liberian government emphatically denied any involvement. However, these guerrillas definitely were not your average band of bush bandits. They were well trained, well equipped, and working to a definite plan of action. The relief program was paralyzed. Shortly thereafter, so was the entire nation of Sierra Leone. There was famine, mob attacks on the refugee camps, mass rioting. Sierra Leone’s already fragile government began to disintegrate.”

“And that’s when Belewa hit them openly, right when things were falling to pieces,” Van Lynden stated grimly.

“Exactly. Roughly a month ago, acting on the stated grounds that Liberian citizens were being endangered in the refugee camps and that the growing civil disorder in Sierra Leone was threatening to spill across their border, the Liberians invaded. The armed forces of Sierra Leone were totally overwhelmed. Freetown fell in a little over two weeks.”

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.

“Obe, you should not do this to yourself.”

“I must, Sako,” he replied to Brigadier Atiba, now his chief of staff. “I must do this to remind myself how much I hate doing this.”

“For the ten thousandth time, Obe, you know that we have no choice if the Union is to be built into what it should be. We must remember that we are using our enemies against our enemies. We must be strong!”

“I know, my old friend.” The General straightened and squared his shoulders. “Tonight we begin the game again. We take a longer step for a greater prize.”

Flashlights bobbed along the road ahead and another group of Union soldiers approached Belewa’s party. Its leader snapped off a precise salute. “General, I apologize for not being present at your arrival. My border scouts are in, and I was receiving their report.”

“There is never a need to apologize for doing your duty, Colonel Sinclair,” Belewa replied. “What do your scouts report?”

“We have a clear border, sir. No Guinean army or police patrols noted. Given an hour to set out our guides and pickets, we can start moving the first DP parties. We can have the first wave across the line by first light.”

“And the supplies for them? They have arrived?”

“As ordered, General. Each displaced person will receive a ration of flour and rice and a blanket.”

“And our Special Forces teams?”

“The lead elements are preparing to move out as we speak, sir. The men would be honored if you would see them off.”

“The honor would be mine, Colonel. Relay the order to all displacement compounds. Commence Operation Deluge Two as per the action plan.”

The Special Forces camp was set away from the DP compound. It, too, consisted of little more than branch-and-leaf lean-tos and smoking fire rings. But here there was a sense of order instead of bewilderment, determination instead of despair. Outlined by the campfires, figures moved swiftly. Orders were called in the darkness, and once a soldier laughed at some unheard joke by a comrade.

“Patrol, attention!”

A cluster of men sprang up from where they rested at a fireside. Their field gear, secured and ready, made hardly any clatter as they came to their feet, hitting a hard brace.

“This will be the first team across the border, General,” Sinclair said.

Belewa walked down the short line of troopers, studying each one in turn by the firelight. This was better. Better by far than the ordeal of the DP camp. It always lightened his heart to get into the field with his soldiers once more, away from the grim necessities of politicking and statesmanship. He paused at the end man, who was the squad sergeant and a good representative of them all.

The soldier was of average height and lean, not with the gauntness of hunger but with the wiry sinuosity born of hard training. His eyes held none of the bloodshot muddiness of marijuana and his youthful face was confident and set.

The pattern and coloration of the camouflage he wore wasn’t quite correct for the West African bush environment. Not surprisingly so, since the uniform had been purchased military surplus from the Hungarian army. Likewise, his camo cap and bush knife had come from a cut-rate Canadian sporting-goods clearinghouse, while his sandals had been made in a local village from an old truck tire.

Slung over his shoulder was a Pakistani copy of a British Sterling submachine gun, while clipped to his cheap Thai military webbing were half a dozen spare 9mm magazines and a mismatched pair of hand grenades, one a massive Russian issue RD, the other a small, palm-size Dutch V40. A rolled jungle poncho and a small haversack containing a ration of rice and dried meat made up the rest of his kit. He wore no insignia or mark of rank. Nor did he carry any written word that might link him to the Union.

The Special Forces trooper was a patchwork warrior, painstakingly pieced together out of the discards and bargains of the world arms market. Second best in everything except dedication.

Belewa knew that it would be ludicrous to compare the equipment and training of his Special Operations units to that of the American Green Berets or the British SAS. However, he also knew that they would be decisively superior to any opponent they might meet across the line in Guinea.

“State your mission, Sergeant,” Belewa barked.

“We are to cross the border and destroy the Highway Bridge at Bambafouga with dynamite charges,” the team leader replied crisply. “Our secondary objective is to cut the telephone lines at Bambafouga crossing and to burn the standing crops ’round the outlying villages. Upon completing our mission, we are to return across the border for reassignment. We are to avoid contact with both the Guinean military and civilian population whenever possible, and we are to avoid causing unnecessary civilian casualties.”

Belewa nodded. “Good. And why are you doing this, warrior?”

“For the Union and the future!” The trooper broke his rigid posture then, looking full into Belewa’s face. “And we do it for you, General!”

Belewa smiled and shook his head. “No, my son,” he said, lightly slapping the younger man on the shoulder. “Only for the Union and the future. I am not important.”

United Nations Special Envoy Vavra Bey was living proof that beauty is not something reserved solely for the young. Her graduation picture from the University of Istanbul showed a rather plain, dark-haired young woman, stocky in build and sober in demeanor. For her, beauty had not come until the onset of silver hair, crow’s-feet, and a double chin — the beauty born out of poise and experience, courage and confidence. Humor had come as well, but she could hold that well concealed behind her dark eyes. She was the iron-willed grandmother figure who could effortlessly invoke either adoration or stark fear as she desired. This applied not only to her children and grandchildren, but equally to the statesmen and dignitaries she confronted on the diplomatic battlegrounds of the world.

Now, seated at the end of the scarred conference table, she frowned to herself.

“What do you think, Madam Envoy?” The very formal and very young Norwegian who served as her assistant blotted at his face with a sweat-dampened handkerchief. The air-conditioning of the Mamba Point Hotel had yet to be put back in order, and the meeting room sweltered despite the windows opened to the sea breeze.

“I’m not sure, Lars. We can only hope for reason.”

In her heart, Vavra Bey already knew what the answer was going to be.

Voices murmured in the corridor beyond the meeting room and the two pistol-armed sentries flanking the door snapped to attention. The envoy and the other members of the small U.N. delegation rose to their feet as Premier General Belewa returned to the room.

He was not alone. His chief of staff, Brigadier Atiba, followed him in, taking a step aside and coming to a smart parade rest near the door. A second man also followed, but he stayed close at Belewa’s shoulder, as if seeking to garner an enhanced presence from the tall black warrior.

Dasheel Umamgi, the ambassador-at-large of the Algerian Revolutionary Council, wore the robes and headdress of a Muslim imam. However, Vavra Bey suspected that he had no right to the title either by education or true belief. It was just that a proclaimed religious fanaticism had been one of the better ways to achieve power in the howling chaos that had engulfed Algeria during the first years of the new century. Revolutionary Algeria had taken the place of Libya as the premier troublemaker of North Africa, and it was no surprise to find them active here.

Gray bearded and dark eyed, the mock holy man leveled a long and cold stare at Vavra. He hated her, because she too was Muslim and yet was not a true believer — in him, at any rate. She was pleased to say he had other reasons to hate her as well.

General Belewa gave an acknowledging nod to the U.N. emissaries and resumed his seat at his end of the table. Bey sank into her own chair, not speaking, allowing the General the first word.

“Madam Envoy,” Belewa began slowly, “I have been in consultation with my staff and advisers and I do not know what more we can say on this matter. We flatly deny the charges leveled against us by the government of Guinea. Above and beyond our stated policy and desire for friendship with all nations, the West African Union is far too concerned with its own internal affairs to undertake this kind of… adventurism with its neighboring states. If Guinea is suffering from an internal rebellion, as we believe to be the case, have them look to making things right with their own discontented population. That is where the solution lies, not with accusing us of aggression.”

“And yet,” Bey replied, “even you must admit, General Belewa, that one of the major causes of discontent within Guinea currently stems from the massive influx of Union refugees into that nation. There are over a hundred and eighty thousand listed in the U.N. aid camps alone. We have no idea how many others are wandering and starving in the countryside.”

Belewa shrugged and leaned back into his chair. “Nor do we, Madam Envoy. We have no control over this state of affairs either. These individuals have left Union territory illegally and without proper documentation. They have entered Guinea the same way. This is a criminal matter for the Guinean authorities to deal with. We have no responsibility in this matter. There is nothing we can do.”

“There is, General. You can open your borders and permit these refugees to return to their homes within the Union, thus ending this crisis for both your nation and Guinea.”

The tall black man shook his head decisively. “That will be impossible. As I said, there is no documentation on these individuals. How are we to know who is a true citizen of the Union and who is not? And we suspect that there may be many criminals, terrorists, and malcontents numbered among these so-called refugees. We are no better able to deal with this problem than Guinea is.”

“General Belewa.” Vavra Bey’s voice lowered a tone. “These are citizens of the Union. The interviews we have conducted in the refugee camps all indicate the same thing, that these people were driven across the border by Union troops we believe acting under your orders.”

“We deny these charges categorically,” Belewa replied flatly. “As I said, there are many malcontents among these individuals — revolutionaries, criminals, and members of the old regimes fleeing justice. People with reason to lie about the true state of affairs in the West African Union. Our borders will remain closed to these disruptive elements, and any attempt to return them to Union territory will be met by armed force.”

“I see.” Vavra Bey’s words hung isolated in the air for a moment. “And do you also still deny that the armed forces of the West African Union have been performing acts of aggression against the nation of Guinea in preparation for an invasion and military takeover?”

“We do. The government of Guinea is seeking to shift the blame for its own failings onto the West African Union.”

“The intelligence reports turned over to the United Nations by a number of major world powers indicate something quite different, General.”

“Then the United Nations should look to the self-serving agendas of these world powers to learn why they wish to defame my nation!”

Vavra Bey paused for a long moment, her face immobile, her eyes lowered to the scratched tabletop, her mind seeking for any diplomatic possibility or potential not yet explored. Decades of diplomatic instinct told her they were at the point of decision and commitment. When she looked up to speak again, it would be to start them all down a precarious and potentially bloody path.

She lifted her eyes.

“General Belewa, as you are fully aware, the intent of this commission was a final effort to find a diplomatic solution to a situation that threatens to disrupt the entirety of West Africa. That solution has not been found. The West African Union stands accused of engaging in a campaign of aggression and conquest against a neighboring state. That aggression stands self-evident. Likewise self-evident is the abuse by the West African Union of its own citizens in the face of all accepted standards of human rights and justice. Such actions are no longer acceptable to the world community.”

The U.N. envoy rose to her feet, her erectness giving the impression that she was taller then she was. “A vote of censure against the West African Union, United Nations Resolution 26867, has been passed by the Security Council. A second resolution, 26868, calling for a U.N. embargo of all armaments, petroleum, and other militarily-related materials, has also been passed but placed in abeyance pending the outcome of these talks. In the meantime, U.N. forces have been moved into position to both enforce this mandate, if necessary, and to assist the government of Guinea in maintaining the security of its national borders.

“I say to you now, General Belewa, that these talks have failed. If word is not received from your government by midnight, tomorrow, that you are standing down your armed forces and ceasing your acts of aggression against the nation of Guinea, this embargo will be placed in effect.”

Belewa’s face was an expressionless study, his voice toneless. “As I said before, Madam Envoy, I do not know what more there is to be said on this subject.”

“Apparently nothing, General.”

Belewa rose abruptly. Without speaking, he turned and left the conference room. His chief of staff and the Algerian ambassador followed. The Algerian had possibly the only pleased expression in the room.

“That’s it, then,” Bey’s aide said quietly. “My God, doesn’t he realize that he will be taking on the entire world?”

“He knows, Lars,” she replied quietly. “Every generation seems to spin off one or two like him who are willing to give it a try. The frightening thing is that sometimes they win.”

General Belewa stood on the small balcony outside his private office, deeply inhaling the clean smell of the sea. He was glad he had chosen to keep the seat of the government here at what had been the Mamba Point Hotel. He liked the view. It reminded him of what the struggle was all about.

Below him, between the ridge of the point and the Mesurado River, the lights of the Union’s capital city glowed in the growing tropic dusk. Not as many as there should be yet, but a few more gleamed each night as old buildings were repaired and new ones constructed.

Vehicles moved in the streets as well. Again, not as many as there should be, but they served as heralds for a resurgent economy. As Belewa watched, a truck lumbered across the ironically named United Nations Bridge, heading north, possibly to the port or maybe up the coast to the Sierra Leone provinces.

No, more than likely the port. A ship was unloading tonight. Out beyond the long artificial breakwaters of Port Monrovia, Belewa could see the yellow glare of the work lights. In his mind’s eye he could visualize the tools, machinery, and armaments pouring ashore. The things he needed to make the Union strong. That cargo was more precious than ever now because it might be the last for some time.

Belewa inhaled deeply once more, drawing new strength from the night, then he returned to his responsibilities.

Sako Atiba and Ambassador Umamgi were waiting for him in the office. Belewa acknowledged the ambassador’s deep salaam with a brief nod.

“Your defiance in the face of the westerners was magnificent today, General,” Umamgi said as he straightened. “The Revolutionary Council salutes your courage.”

“It was something that had to happen eventually, Ambassador,” Belewa replied shortly, seating himself behind his desk. “Speaking frankly, I wish it could have been put off until later.”

“I also wish to assure you again, General, that the Council will stand at your shoulder during the coming struggle with the colonialists. You shall have our prayers.”

“A pity we couldn’t have a battalion of tanks and a few surface-to-air missiles as well,” Atiba interjected grimly.

Umamgi smiled without humor. “The Brigadier knows that we are a poor nation, as is your own, impoverished by our own struggle against the infidel West. However, we can promise to provide you with the long-range cargo aircraft you will need to maintain an air link with my nation and the outside world.”

Atiba lifted an eyebrow sardonically. “At a price, of course.”

“That’s enough, Sako,” Belewa interjected. “Ambassador Umamgi, you may rest assured that your alliance is held in great value by the Union. Your aid and assistance in these troubled times will be long remembered. We are most grateful for whatever assistance your nation can most generously offer.”

Umamgi smiled smugly and inclined his head.

“But,” Belewa went on levelly, “there are certain aspects of that aid we need to discuss, Ambassador.”

“And what are they, General?”

“We are extremely grateful for the cadre of military advisers and instructors that Algeria has sent us, Ambassador. However, we find that there is a minor problem with the curriculums they are using.”

“A problem?”

“Indeed.” Belewa nodded. “My advisers inform me that there is a degree of… religious indoctrination incorporated into most of the training programs.”

Umamgi smiled again, without humor. “Our troops are warriors of Islam. They only wish to share their beliefs with their comrades at arms.”

Belewa returned a cold smile of his own. “And they are welcome to. In the Union, all are free to choose their own faith, be it Christianity, Islam, or the beliefs of our African forefathers. Your soldiers are free to speak of their religion in the mosques, in the streets, wherever they choose…except for when they are on duty in my training camps.”

There was no longer even a false smile on Umamgi’s face.

“You will have this matter corrected, Ambassador.” Belewa’s words were a command and not a question.

The clash of wills was short. Umamgi half bowed. “As you wish, General. After all, we are guests in your country.”

“Thank you, Ambassador. And see to it tonight, if you please.”

“At once, General. Peace be unto you.”

The Algerian turned for the door, but not quite fast enough to conceal the scowl that came across his vulpine features.

After the ambassador had taken his leave, Sako Atiba donned a scowl of his own. “Damnation. Don’t we have enough trouble with our enemies that we have to be saddled with friends like that?”

Belewa gave a short laugh. “Not friends, Sako, allies. And allies are like relatives — you can’t choose them, you just have to accept them as they come.” His features grew sober again. “The Algerians seek to use us to further their aims just as we use them to further our own. It is a thing we must live with, my friend. We shall need all the help we can get for the next few months, from whatever source.”

Atiba shook his head. “This U.N. blockade. They will try to strangle the life out of us, Obe. Will they succeed?”

It was Belewa’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t know, my friend. This had to come sooner or later. To the Western world, it is a knee-jerk reaction to our national expansion. They don’t yet understand what we are trying to do here for ourselves and for all of Africa. They cannot see beyond the military occupations and the change in the status quo.”

Belewa rose from behind his desk and crossed the room to stand in front of the regional map tacked to the wall. “No, Sako. This confrontation had to come. It would have been better if we could have secured Guinea first, but we’ve made our preparations. We’re ready to take it on now.”

The Chief of Staff came to stand at his general’s side. “What is our first move, Obe?”

“We attack. In any war, victory lies only in the attack. Defense is the precursor to defeat.”

“And our target?”

Belewa’s hand came up, his finger aimed at a point on the map “There.”

Atiba’s eyebrows lifted. “At Conakry? At the main U.N. base?”

“If you would kill an enemy, what better place to strike than at his heart. For a long time, Sako, they have let us alone simply because we weren’t worth the trouble of bothering with. Now we must make them leave us alone by not being worth the blood price they will have to pay for interfering.”