In The Crosshairs

Through the darkness a middle-aged man staggered down the narrow and poorly lit street in the middleclass neighborhood of Sinkor in the Liberian seaside capital of Monrovia, wearing a pair of dirt stained khaki shorts and a tie-dye shirt.  A baseball cap covered his head; and a faded pair of red unlaced Chuck Taylor’s, his ashy feet.  The tall coconut trees along the eerie dead-end street bowed as the brisk winds coming in off the Atlantic Ocean rattled through their thatched leaves.  Tossing his empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey into the brush beneath the grove of coconut trees, the man continued south towards the beach.  As he stepped onto the white sand, a fine mist of salty water dusted his face.  The drunk blinked and then headed west paralleling the shoreline.  Like so many of life’s twists, some things are not always what they seem. 

            Staggering west, his shoes full of sand, the unsteady man approached a three-foot high culvert and ducked into it.  Crawling gingerly across eight feet of murky greenish-black colored mold embedded into the interior wall of the open drain, the man soon reached the other side of the culvert.  Slithering out, he crept up onto a slightly elevated bed of rocks overlooking a poorly maintained fence-line that bordered the beach.  Struggling to keep his balance atop the rugged incline, the drunk reached into his back pocket.  As the dingy man gathered himself, two agile functionaries moved swiftly across the white sand.  Dressed in shorts and tank tops, their sandals stirred gracefully through the sand as they picked up the pace. 

The whistling winds coming in off the Atlantic and the crashing sounds of waves breaking against the sand and rocks brought a heightened sense of alert to the two strollers.  Having parked their government-issued jeep on 19^th Street, approximately six blocks away from the beach, the two men had completed counter-surveillance maneuvers before heading towards the ocean.  Moving artfully through the sand, they closed in on the Lebanese-owned Cedar Recreation and Social Club.  As they approached the south fence-line of the neighboring John F. Kennedy (JFK) Medical Center, they surveyed the perimeter for anything unusual.  The beach was deserted.  The only signs of life were crabs scurrying towards little holes and into the receding foam from the waves.  The half moon in the overcast sky provided an added cover for the two functionaries. 

James Barchue and Francis Zoegah were officers in the Liberian Army, and tonight they were taking a bold step towards a very ambitious goal.  Barchue was a twenty-six-year-old Corporal.  Zoegah was twenty-five years old and had just been promoted to Sergeant.  Four years earlier both men had completed eighteen months of joint U.S./Liberia Green Beret training exercises, and were extremely proficient in the tactics of guerilla war.   A mild mannered personality, Barchue was a fierce competitor and combatant.  He was clean cut, slender, stood six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred ten pounds.  A strict regimen of sit-ups, pull-ups, jogging, and swimming in the Atlantic, had chiseled him into shape.  His slender appearance was deceiving.  Zoegah on the other hand, had a tendency to be exuberant—a real hell raiser.  A short but fit soldier, Zoegah stood five feet three inches tall and weighed roughly one hundred eighty pounds.  He had a cropped beard and had begun to bald slightly.  Having completed their training at the top of their class, Barchue and Zoegah had both been assigned to the elite Presidential Guard—the force charged with protecting the Executive Mansion and the President‘s villa. 

            Their eyes anxiously sweeping the beach, the two men watched for any signs that they were being followed.  The stakes were high and there was no room for error.  The glow from the hospital’s floodlights was beginning to fade as the beach became darker.  Moving west at a brisk pace, and passing a mold-infested fence behind the medical center, the two talented soldiers suddenly spotted the gloomy figure of a man lurking in the shadows—stirring towards them.