08-24-2015, 11:12 PM
Jacques watched as Carpenter approached. The man was without his limp, the cast gone. He had been well briefed on the medical state of the wounded, and Carptenter's wound was such that he should have been limping for months. Baring some sort of miracle, or a mixture of bull-headed stubbornness and excellent pain killers, the only remaining option was Legionnaire Vanders. He had made mention of being able to heal minor wounds in his report.
The man's question was poignant. It was unspoken, but the man's American heritage was evident in his stance, his boldness of statement. He spoke briefly, almost to himself, barely heard by any standing more then a few paces away even in the crushing silence of the embassy courtyard. "Loose the battle. Win the war."
It was a lost battle that would haunt him for years to come. In Jeddah, he had sacrificed soldiers to fight and die for a good cause, but it had never been planned as a suicide mission.
The trip to the refugee camp had been painfully different. The deaths of those refugees was what had won him the support of the Sierra Leonean troops holding the international airport. The support of the city police and myriad other organizations and unions that were even as they spoke preparing to overthrow the city. Had bought the Legion much needed time to fully liquidate it's assets and move them from the reach of world courts and governments.
He was preparing to fight a war on two fronts; General Wallace-Johnson, General Katlego, unaligned rebels supported by the Liberians, and bandits and warlords out of the failed-state of Guinea. They were but one front, and perhaps the easiest to deal with in the long run. Beans and bullets and all that. It was the other war which would prove the most devastating. It was the one fought behind the scenes, through emails and bank ledgers. Lawyers and foreign/domestic criminal investigations.
He had made the decision. He hadn't hesitated; the incident had brought to a head the tensions in Freetown and Sierra Leone as a whole. It had drawn global attention, if only briefly; a rapidly narrowing window he would not let go to waste.
"I, we, cannot save everyone, Legionnaire Carpenter. Much as we might wish otherwise. There are only six hundred of us left, here and in Morocco. Not enough to save everyone. But we cannot let the deaths of those we fail hold us back. We haven't that right. A balance must be struck, to remember those you have failed but ever strive forward. This is what I ask of you Legionnaires."
"Had we fought there, at Masiaka, our brothers here would have been attacked. The volunteers would not have been spared. At best, the Red Cross workers, the foreign ones at least, would have been deported. The relief convoy is well past the point of no-return, and likely would not have survived the trip back through Guinea. And while we may have beaten Wallace-Johnson's soldiers at the refinery, we would have been no match for Katlego's men."
He had been speaking to Carpenter, but loudly enough to be heard by those gathered, but he finally turned his attention back to the group at large, "I hope. Some day, soldiers like us will no longer be needed. That common folk stand up, and the corrupt and dark-hearted are no longer able to take power. That children can go to school, that parents can watch them grow healthy and strong."
Carpenter was right, that it was a rare thing to see Jacques without his trade-mark Landwarriors hiding his eyes. It was often said that the eyes were the mirror to the soul, a belief held in many cultures the world over. For all his reputation for quick smiles and penchant for gambling, his playboy antics for the few tabloids that cared about Africa's 'rich and famous', much of it had been a mask. A strategy to assure investors and secure good contracts for the Legion. A mask that hadn't sat well since the day the previous CEO was killed in Nigeria what felt like a lifetime ago, settling onto him the weight of leadership of the Legion.
The view Carpenter could glimpse belied the charming smiles and easy-going demeanor. Jacques was all too aware of the blood on his hands, blood spilled by his decisions and mistakes. But rather then be dragged down by the sorrow of it all, he pressed forward. For he had no right to succumb to his sorrow. He would weather the storm until he was no longer needed to.
"But until that day, there will be work to do. It will start here, today. Freetown. A name that shall, soon, be true to it's meaning. There are people in this world that need help. Help that no country is willing to give. They site the expenses, the cost. They fear offending trade partners. Excuses I shall no longer entertain. The world will see what happens on the other side of their television sets. It has already begun. Recruits from around the world. A slow trickle, but it is a beginning."
The man's question was poignant. It was unspoken, but the man's American heritage was evident in his stance, his boldness of statement. He spoke briefly, almost to himself, barely heard by any standing more then a few paces away even in the crushing silence of the embassy courtyard. "Loose the battle. Win the war."
It was a lost battle that would haunt him for years to come. In Jeddah, he had sacrificed soldiers to fight and die for a good cause, but it had never been planned as a suicide mission.
The trip to the refugee camp had been painfully different. The deaths of those refugees was what had won him the support of the Sierra Leonean troops holding the international airport. The support of the city police and myriad other organizations and unions that were even as they spoke preparing to overthrow the city. Had bought the Legion much needed time to fully liquidate it's assets and move them from the reach of world courts and governments.
He was preparing to fight a war on two fronts; General Wallace-Johnson, General Katlego, unaligned rebels supported by the Liberians, and bandits and warlords out of the failed-state of Guinea. They were but one front, and perhaps the easiest to deal with in the long run. Beans and bullets and all that. It was the other war which would prove the most devastating. It was the one fought behind the scenes, through emails and bank ledgers. Lawyers and foreign/domestic criminal investigations.
He had made the decision. He hadn't hesitated; the incident had brought to a head the tensions in Freetown and Sierra Leone as a whole. It had drawn global attention, if only briefly; a rapidly narrowing window he would not let go to waste.
"I, we, cannot save everyone, Legionnaire Carpenter. Much as we might wish otherwise. There are only six hundred of us left, here and in Morocco. Not enough to save everyone. But we cannot let the deaths of those we fail hold us back. We haven't that right. A balance must be struck, to remember those you have failed but ever strive forward. This is what I ask of you Legionnaires."
"Had we fought there, at Masiaka, our brothers here would have been attacked. The volunteers would not have been spared. At best, the Red Cross workers, the foreign ones at least, would have been deported. The relief convoy is well past the point of no-return, and likely would not have survived the trip back through Guinea. And while we may have beaten Wallace-Johnson's soldiers at the refinery, we would have been no match for Katlego's men."
He had been speaking to Carpenter, but loudly enough to be heard by those gathered, but he finally turned his attention back to the group at large, "I hope. Some day, soldiers like us will no longer be needed. That common folk stand up, and the corrupt and dark-hearted are no longer able to take power. That children can go to school, that parents can watch them grow healthy and strong."
Carpenter was right, that it was a rare thing to see Jacques without his trade-mark Landwarriors hiding his eyes. It was often said that the eyes were the mirror to the soul, a belief held in many cultures the world over. For all his reputation for quick smiles and penchant for gambling, his playboy antics for the few tabloids that cared about Africa's 'rich and famous', much of it had been a mask. A strategy to assure investors and secure good contracts for the Legion. A mask that hadn't sat well since the day the previous CEO was killed in Nigeria what felt like a lifetime ago, settling onto him the weight of leadership of the Legion.
The view Carpenter could glimpse belied the charming smiles and easy-going demeanor. Jacques was all too aware of the blood on his hands, blood spilled by his decisions and mistakes. But rather then be dragged down by the sorrow of it all, he pressed forward. For he had no right to succumb to his sorrow. He would weather the storm until he was no longer needed to.
"But until that day, there will be work to do. It will start here, today. Freetown. A name that shall, soon, be true to it's meaning. There are people in this world that need help. Help that no country is willing to give. They site the expenses, the cost. They fear offending trade partners. Excuses I shall no longer entertain. The world will see what happens on the other side of their television sets. It has already begun. Recruits from around the world. A slow trickle, but it is a beginning."