06-30-2014, 08:41 PM
The small motorcade eventually made it's way to the ferry terminal, where some of the security detail dismounted, keeping the crowd at bay until they were allowed through the perimeter General Wallace-Johnson's soldiers had taken up to control the flow of people into the city. Many were searched, and some were segregated or arrested, locked away in Sea-Cans pressed into service as temporary prison cells, or in some cases tents fenced off with barbed wire.
Jacques watched through the mirrored, armoured window of his SUV, paying close attention to the way the Sierra Leonean soldiers dealt with the refugees seeking their protection. Those of Mende birth seemed treated relatively well; many were forced to pay 'fees' to gain access to the ferries into the city. Such fees were levied against Jacques and his entourage, but the Sierra Leonean military officer who suggested it quickly backpedaled the idea with some persuasion from Jacques, who dismounted from the vehicle long enough to speak with the man.
As they rolled onto the ferry, a group of Sierra Leonean soldiers fired on a group of men lined up facing a sea-can, executing the lot of them while women and children, likely families of the men executed, watched and wept. Their belongings had been 'confiscated', and whatever the soldiers didn't want for themselves had been tossed into the river. Food and money was taken from them, 'to support military operations.' And they were left stranded and alone, unable to cross into the city.
Jacques' expression was devoid of emotion. Cold. The situation in Sierra Leone was not getting any better with the military's intervention. They stood at the beginning of a very dark path, one that had been witnessed in Africa far too many times in the past. One that he was intent not to see followed again.
Jacques found some hidden determination with what he had seen at the ferry terminal. Their ride across the river to the Freetown ports was spent again buried in work. His Wallet sprang to life once more, but this time the displays were kept opaque, whatever they showed hidden from Reed's angle of view. The way his eyes moved, he was watching video feeds and reading written reports. Occasionally he typed and forwarded emails, his fingers moving at a near blur of practiced familiarity.
Their arrival in Freetown was with much less difficulty. More soldiers worked there to see that the refugees unloaded and moved away quickly. There were promises of camps being set up in parks or warehouses or the football stadium, but none had much by way of actual supplies yet. No tents, no food or water. Just areas sectioned off for people to wait for help to begin arriving.
Even on that side of the river, the refugees were often forced to pay 'processing fees' as their names were taken in disorganized, paper-written records. But it was being enforced by the army, the army loyal to the government, the one tasked to keep them safe, so in most cases the refugees paid it without complaint. The bodies of Temne rebels hanging from make-shift gallows near the ferry terminal likely helped motivate the refugees.
Freetown had been hit hard and seemingly at random. Some streets they passed down seemed untouched; stores that had escaped looting, hotels free of fire damage. And the next street, cars were burned out wrecks, shop fronts shattered and empty. Blood still visibly stained the streets in some areas, and teams of volunteers worked to collect the dead.
By the time they reached the Legion HQ, any exhaustion Jacques had shown when Reed had first joined him in the vehicle had passed. They were waved through the crowd of Moroccans seeking the services of their embassy to escape the country, and the motorcade rode into the open grounds of the embassy proper.
He climbed out rather then waiting for one of his men to open the door for him, and after returning the salutes of a few of his men, turned to offer Reed a hand out of the vehicle. He had a reputation to maintain as a businessman and white-collared fellow, not as a soldier.
"I assume you will be staying with us, Mademoiselle Reed."
It was less a question then an expectation, but he was equally expecting that she would expect to come and go as she saw fit. "Lieutenant? See to it that she is given an ID and pass."
One of his officers who had met them at the motorcade nodded in understanding and turned to Reed, intending to lead her off for processing, while Jacques strolled into the main building, where he was met by Capitaine Antić. They shook hands, "Sir. I wish I could have afforded you a warmer welcome. I can brief you on the situation here after you have settled in."
Jacques nodded his approval; he had already read every report that could be found of the situation, including those of freelance reporters and the government's official statements on the matter. General Wallace-Johnson had made a public statement that morning, broadcast life, the wording of which had made it seem very clear that the man assumed he, as the current head of the military (a surprising self promotion) was in charge. Temporarily, of course.
"I look forward to it, Capitaine. Lead the way."
The Capitaine nodded and Jacques soon lost two hours in an office adjacent the make-shift command center. Supply and staffing issues were addressed, as were rules of engagement. There were a half dozen besieged teams scattered around the country, dug into very expensive foreign-owned facilities where refugees had been gathered. It was just a matter of time before the most isolated ones were attacked.
Other issues were also addressed; the current political atmosphere of Sierra Leone, the elected government was scattered and in hiding, or plain dead. And General Wallace-Johnson and his command were a likely source of trouble in the near future.
Next came a discussion with the former President's wife and Ambassador Stankic. Mademoiselle Knezevic and her children were still under the protection of the Legion, at least until she had recovered from her injuries, although her children were going to be sent to Morocco for the time being. She had an inside view of the political situation; contacts and familiarity with many in the elected government, who were now returned to their offices in an effort to bring some sense of normality and leadership to the fractured country.
Jacques' worries were confirmed with what she had to tell him. Many of those government officials had voiced concerns to her after being approached by officers loyal to the General. The man was gearing to take over the country, Jacques was certain of it. Ambassador Stankic confirmed that Morocco had little interest in being directly involved in Sierra Leone's troubles, at least until a meeting of the African Union could be established. They would be gathering in Cairo in three weeks to discuss DV and would entertain the Sierra Leone situation at the same time.
With those conversations complete, Jacques eventually showed up in the ward of the embassy dedicated to the wounded. Word of his presence had spread like wildfire through the embassy and the mansions that had been secured for the Moroccan refugees. He spent a few minutes in each room, discussing with the exhausted medics and embassy doctor, the tasked orderlies, and the wounded. Who were simply the wounded still capable of walking.
He eventually stepped into the room given to Legionnaire 'Hollywood', as was lovingly scrawled across the cover page of the clipboard holding the injured Legionnaire's medical files. He had heard of this one. Well, he had heard of them all, but this one especially. He opened the door after knocking once, and was met with Legionnaires Vanders and Carpenter, and a handful of other bedridden Legionnaires. And a kitten.
"Gentlemen."
He still wore the uniform he had dawned for the mission in DV, but had relieved himself of the bodyarmour and gear, save for the pistol still strapped to his thigh. That would likely change after he had had a chance for some time to himself. Despite how exhausted he surely was, he seemed alert, and stood tall. He still smelled of the fires the runway, and of gun smoke.
Jacques watched through the mirrored, armoured window of his SUV, paying close attention to the way the Sierra Leonean soldiers dealt with the refugees seeking their protection. Those of Mende birth seemed treated relatively well; many were forced to pay 'fees' to gain access to the ferries into the city. Such fees were levied against Jacques and his entourage, but the Sierra Leonean military officer who suggested it quickly backpedaled the idea with some persuasion from Jacques, who dismounted from the vehicle long enough to speak with the man.
As they rolled onto the ferry, a group of Sierra Leonean soldiers fired on a group of men lined up facing a sea-can, executing the lot of them while women and children, likely families of the men executed, watched and wept. Their belongings had been 'confiscated', and whatever the soldiers didn't want for themselves had been tossed into the river. Food and money was taken from them, 'to support military operations.' And they were left stranded and alone, unable to cross into the city.
Jacques' expression was devoid of emotion. Cold. The situation in Sierra Leone was not getting any better with the military's intervention. They stood at the beginning of a very dark path, one that had been witnessed in Africa far too many times in the past. One that he was intent not to see followed again.
Jacques found some hidden determination with what he had seen at the ferry terminal. Their ride across the river to the Freetown ports was spent again buried in work. His Wallet sprang to life once more, but this time the displays were kept opaque, whatever they showed hidden from Reed's angle of view. The way his eyes moved, he was watching video feeds and reading written reports. Occasionally he typed and forwarded emails, his fingers moving at a near blur of practiced familiarity.
Their arrival in Freetown was with much less difficulty. More soldiers worked there to see that the refugees unloaded and moved away quickly. There were promises of camps being set up in parks or warehouses or the football stadium, but none had much by way of actual supplies yet. No tents, no food or water. Just areas sectioned off for people to wait for help to begin arriving.
Even on that side of the river, the refugees were often forced to pay 'processing fees' as their names were taken in disorganized, paper-written records. But it was being enforced by the army, the army loyal to the government, the one tasked to keep them safe, so in most cases the refugees paid it without complaint. The bodies of Temne rebels hanging from make-shift gallows near the ferry terminal likely helped motivate the refugees.
Freetown had been hit hard and seemingly at random. Some streets they passed down seemed untouched; stores that had escaped looting, hotels free of fire damage. And the next street, cars were burned out wrecks, shop fronts shattered and empty. Blood still visibly stained the streets in some areas, and teams of volunteers worked to collect the dead.
By the time they reached the Legion HQ, any exhaustion Jacques had shown when Reed had first joined him in the vehicle had passed. They were waved through the crowd of Moroccans seeking the services of their embassy to escape the country, and the motorcade rode into the open grounds of the embassy proper.
He climbed out rather then waiting for one of his men to open the door for him, and after returning the salutes of a few of his men, turned to offer Reed a hand out of the vehicle. He had a reputation to maintain as a businessman and white-collared fellow, not as a soldier.
"I assume you will be staying with us, Mademoiselle Reed."
It was less a question then an expectation, but he was equally expecting that she would expect to come and go as she saw fit. "Lieutenant? See to it that she is given an ID and pass."
One of his officers who had met them at the motorcade nodded in understanding and turned to Reed, intending to lead her off for processing, while Jacques strolled into the main building, where he was met by Capitaine Antić. They shook hands, "Sir. I wish I could have afforded you a warmer welcome. I can brief you on the situation here after you have settled in."
Jacques nodded his approval; he had already read every report that could be found of the situation, including those of freelance reporters and the government's official statements on the matter. General Wallace-Johnson had made a public statement that morning, broadcast life, the wording of which had made it seem very clear that the man assumed he, as the current head of the military (a surprising self promotion) was in charge. Temporarily, of course.
"I look forward to it, Capitaine. Lead the way."
The Capitaine nodded and Jacques soon lost two hours in an office adjacent the make-shift command center. Supply and staffing issues were addressed, as were rules of engagement. There were a half dozen besieged teams scattered around the country, dug into very expensive foreign-owned facilities where refugees had been gathered. It was just a matter of time before the most isolated ones were attacked.
Other issues were also addressed; the current political atmosphere of Sierra Leone, the elected government was scattered and in hiding, or plain dead. And General Wallace-Johnson and his command were a likely source of trouble in the near future.
Next came a discussion with the former President's wife and Ambassador Stankic. Mademoiselle Knezevic and her children were still under the protection of the Legion, at least until she had recovered from her injuries, although her children were going to be sent to Morocco for the time being. She had an inside view of the political situation; contacts and familiarity with many in the elected government, who were now returned to their offices in an effort to bring some sense of normality and leadership to the fractured country.
Jacques' worries were confirmed with what she had to tell him. Many of those government officials had voiced concerns to her after being approached by officers loyal to the General. The man was gearing to take over the country, Jacques was certain of it. Ambassador Stankic confirmed that Morocco had little interest in being directly involved in Sierra Leone's troubles, at least until a meeting of the African Union could be established. They would be gathering in Cairo in three weeks to discuss DV and would entertain the Sierra Leone situation at the same time.
With those conversations complete, Jacques eventually showed up in the ward of the embassy dedicated to the wounded. Word of his presence had spread like wildfire through the embassy and the mansions that had been secured for the Moroccan refugees. He spent a few minutes in each room, discussing with the exhausted medics and embassy doctor, the tasked orderlies, and the wounded. Who were simply the wounded still capable of walking.
He eventually stepped into the room given to Legionnaire 'Hollywood', as was lovingly scrawled across the cover page of the clipboard holding the injured Legionnaire's medical files. He had heard of this one. Well, he had heard of them all, but this one especially. He opened the door after knocking once, and was met with Legionnaires Vanders and Carpenter, and a handful of other bedridden Legionnaires. And a kitten.
"Gentlemen."
He still wore the uniform he had dawned for the mission in DV, but had relieved himself of the bodyarmour and gear, save for the pistol still strapped to his thigh. That would likely change after he had had a chance for some time to himself. Despite how exhausted he surely was, he seemed alert, and stood tall. He still smelled of the fires the runway, and of gun smoke.