The Peacemakers (14 page)

BermaNur bent over the saddle’s pommel, his cheek against his horse’s neck. It had been a long run and he had carefully husbanded his mount, varying the gait, yet always urging it on. He sensed the horse still had more to give, and he was determined to outdistance the others. Even Jahel had waved him past, shouting his approval. Now only Jahel’s second in command, a superb horseman, was in front of him. Ahead, he saw the burning wreckage of a Hercules and his spirits soared. Allah was most great and his justice certain. The rider in front slowed to a canter and then to a walk. BermaNur slowed and rode beside him, wise enough to know the race was over and not to shame a superior.

The rider stopped when he saw two Americans standing over their comrades lying on the ground. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the pommel, as a cunning look spread across his face. One of the Americans was a woman and the other a short African. “A kafir,” the rider snorted. He turned and ordered BermaNur to stop. “This is not for you.” He waved his AK-47 at the teenager, making his point. BermaNur reined his horse around and trotted away. He had made a mark and that was enough for now. He turned to watch – and to learn.

Alone, the rider cantered up to the Americans, still waving his AK-47. He smiled wickedly as he circled the Americans. Then he reined his horse into the kafir, pushing him away from the woman.

Malakal

G.G. sat at the scheduling desk in his normal position, chair rocked back, feet up on the desk, and practicing a card trick that required a difficult sleight-of-hand movement when a loud wail came over the radio’s loudspeaker. He bolted upright, dumping the cards on the floor, and hit the mute button. Automatically, he copied the numbers on the readout as he hit the transmit button to call Allston and his staff. “Boss, the emergency locator beacon on Bard Green’s Herk has activated.”

“Be there in three,” Allston replied. “Call Lane and Malaby. And notify Colonel Vermullen.”

Near Wer Ping

The Janjaweed grabbed Lou by the collar and dragged her backwards while still waving his AK-47 at Williams on the other side of his horse. But Louise Colvin was not another hapless victim of rape by the marauding Janjaweed. She twisted and dug in her heels just as the horseman squeezed off a short burst at Williams. The three shots went wild, high above Williams’ head, as she grabbed the Janjaweed’s arm and pulled him out of the saddle. The horse reared as Williams pulled a combat knife out of his right boot. He scampered under the rearing horse, going directly for the Janjaweed. “Let him go!” he shouted. Lou released her grip, allowing the man to regain his balance and come to his feet. The Janjaweed spun around, bringing his AK-47 to bear. But Williams was on him and grabbed the back of the man’s neck as he brought his knife up in a hard thrusting motion, cutting deep into the Janjaweed’s chest below the sternum. Williams pulled the Janjaweed onto the knife, driving the tip into his heart. Lou grabbed the reins of the rearing horse as the Janjaweed died.

BermaNur saw his comrade go down and fired a long burst from the saddle. “Hit the dirt!” Williams roared as he dropped to the ground. Lou released the horse’s reins as she fell. It was the first time BermaNur had ever fired an AK-47 and the barrel lifted, sending the rounds high over the Americans’ heads. BermaNur dismounted and fired again. This time, two slugs cut into the horse. It bucked in terrible pain as Williams rolled clear and scooped up the dead Janjaweed’s AK-47. He squeezed off a short burst. He missed, but it drove the teenager back, who was now more concerned with saving his horse than avenging his fellow Fursan. Williams selected single-shot on the AK-47 and carefully aimed at the retreating teenager. He squeezed the trigger. He missed again and roared in frustration.

“You can’t hit squat with an AK-47 at this range,” Lou told him. She grabbed the weapon and shot the dying horse, putting it out of its misery. “Gimme an M-16 any day of the week.” She had been raised on a ranch in Oregon and grew up with horses and guns. Williams methodically stripped the dead Janjaweed and horse of weapons and ammunition. He deliberately focused on the task, ignoring the tears streaking Lou’s cheeks. “Damn,” she muttered over and over, stroking the dead horse’s ears.

Williams stood and looked around. The Dinka had all disappeared and they were alone. “We need to find better cover. The bastard will be back. With his buddies.”

Malakal

G.G. spread the chart out for Allston and Vermullen and quickly plotted the coordinates. “This is the location of the crash. It’s accurate to three meters.” He typed a command into his computer and showed the men a detailed satellite photograph of the area. “But we don’t know the status of the crew.”

“We assume they are alive until we know otherwise,” Allston said.

“Weapons?” Vermullen asked.

“The UN doesn’t allow us to carry weapons,” Dick Lane, the ops officer, said.

Vermullen was stunned that the Americans could be so stupid. “An order from the UN is only a point of discussion,” he told them. “Time is of the essence. We have two or three hours at the most. The clock is running.”

“How many men do you have and when?” Allston asked.

“I have eighty preparing now.” He checked his watch. “They should be ready to board in twenty minutes.”

“Paratroops?” Allston asked.

“All of them.”

Allston was impressed. He knew what it took for a paratrooper to suit up for a combat jump. He turned to Malaby. “The birds?”

“We got two on station. Both are OR and good to go. Sir, I must protest. We need to coordinate this with Addis Abba.”

“That will take a couple of days,” Allston told her. “Configure the birds for a personnel drop.” Malaby jammed her blue beret on and disappeared out the door. Allston watched her go. She was a good maintenance officer, but inflexible and short on imagination, two traits essential for success in any emergency. “I’ll lead in number one. G.G. you’re with me.” He thought for a moment and turned to Lane. “Dick, I want you in the left seat of number two. You fill in the crews. We brief at the aircraft and in the air. We’re like Gumby on this one – max flexibility.”

“Marci Jenkins in your right seat,” Lane said. “She’ll give me a ration of shit I don’t need if she gets left out.” He rattled off a list of names, filling in the other crew positions. “Boss, we’re pushing this one.”

“Tell me.”

Near Wer Ping

Allston throttled back and the C-130 descended, trading altitude for airspeed. “Go Guard,” he told Marci. The copilot punched at a button on the UHF radio, selecting the emergency radio channel. Allston hit the transmit button under his left thumb. “Any Irregular, this is Gizmo One on Guard. How copy?”

Williams’s faint voice came over the radio. “Read you five by, Gizmo One. Is that you, Boss?”

The worry that bound Allston yielded a notch. At least one of the crew was alive and transmitting on a handheld emergency radio. “Affirm. Is that you, Loni?”

“That’s a roger, Boss. Me and Lou are okay, the pilots and engineer are messed up a little, but conscious. No broken bones and we got the bleeding stopped.”

Allston allowed a satisfied grunt. “Say location.” On cue, a bright flash on the ground flickered at them. An old-fashioned survival mirror from Lou Colvin’s survival vest had worked its magic. “Got it.”

“Boss, there’s over a hundred Janjaweed in the area. I morted one and they’re pissed.”

“Help is on the way,” Allston told him. He keyed the intercom. “Loadmaster, please have Colonel Vermullen come to the flight deck. Marci, go common.” Again, she punched at the radio and switched to the UHF frequency the C-130s used to communicate between themselves. He keyed the radio. “Gizmo Two, how copy?” Lane confirmed the radio transmissions were loud and clear. “Roger,” Allston replied. “Hold clear of the area, above the cloud deck. I don’t want the Janjaweed to know you’re here.” Less than a minute later, the big Frenchman climbed onto the flight deck. He had shed his parachute and most of his gear in order to move around. Allston quickly briefed him on the number of Janjaweed Williams had seen. “We may have to fight our way in.”

Vermullen snorted. “What is this ‘we,’ Yank?” He hunched over the navigator’s table with G.G. and studied the chart. “I’ll parachute in with my team to secure the area and evaluate the situation on the ground. Hold the other aircraft in reserve.” They were on the same wavelength.

“May I make a suggestion?” Marci said. “It would be nice to have some firepower on board when we land to extract you.”

“What are you thinking?” Vermullen asked.

“Leave a few shooters on board.” She pointed to the emergency escape hatch above their heads. “We can put one in the top hatch, sort of like a nose gunner, and have a couple more on the ramp, like last time.”

Allston reevaluated the young woman. She was definitely showing fangs, which he liked, and was much more aggressive than many of her male counterparts. Allston turned to Vermullen. “We can do that. Colonel, what do you think?”

Vermullen studied the overhead hatch. “How will he get up there?”

“The loadmaster can rig a ladder,” Allston told him.

“I’ll detail three shooters to stay behind,” Vermullen said.

“No volunteers?” Allston asked.

Vermullen snorted. “No parachutiste trusts a pilot to safely land. It is much safer to bail out.”

“Tell them not to shoot off a prop,” Allston replied.

Williams voice came over the Guard channel. “Gizmo One! We’re taking fire from the brush and tree line north of our position.”

Vermullen studied the terrain below. “Where exactly are they located?”

Allston keyed the Guard channel. “Loni, give us a flash.” Again, Williams used the survival mirror.

Vermullen pinpointed his location. The Americans were in an open area with a clear field of fire between them and the Janjaweed. The legionnaires would have been sitting ducks if they had parachuted in as planned, but Vermullen was a master tactician and quickly worked the problem, his eyes darting from the chart to the terrain below. It was time for Plan B. “The wooded area behind the Janjaweed blocks their field of fire.” He pointed to an open area. “Captain G.G., can you insert us in that small clearing behind the Janjaweed?” G.G. assured him he could. “C’est bon. We will attack them from the rear. Once we have their undivided attention, Major Lane can insert Major Mercier and his parachutistes to secure the Americans and the landing area. If our luck holds, we can drive the Janjaweed towards Mercier.”

“The old hammer and anvil works every time,” Allston said. He relayed the plan to Lane who was orbiting fifteen miles to the south. “Gizmo Two, you’re cleared to ingress the area. Drop on Williams when I clear you.”

“Turning inbound now,” Lane replied.

G.G. stood behind the copilot as Allston maneuvered the big aircraft, lining up on an open area north of the brush where the Janjaweed were hiding. When G.G. had his bearings, he jumped into his seat and drove the crosshairs on the radar display over the small clearing where Vermullen wanted to be inserted. “Sandwich time,” the navigator said. At exactly four nautical miles out, G.G. called, “Two minutes.” The loadmaster, Staff Sergeant James MacRay, reported that Vermullen was standing in the jump door and the legionnaires were ready to go. Allston dropped the Hercules to 800 feet above the ground. “One minute,” G.G. called.

“We’re taking ground fire,” Marci said.

“Colonel Allston,” MacRay said, “the jumpmaster said to descend to 600 feet. They want minimum time in the chutes.”

Allston descended 200 feet, and was flying straight and level as G.G. counted down. “Green light,” the navigator said. The C-130 shifted as the forty paratroopers marched swiftly out the two jump doors, twenty to a side. Allston jinked the bird hard to avoid ground fire as he climbed.

“Merde!”
the French jumpmaster in the rear shouted over the intercom. “MacRay fell out the door! I see his parachute.”

“Fuckin’ lovely!” Allston roared. “I thought he was tethered in.”

Vermullen’s paratroopers were out of their harnesses and advancing on the Janjaweed in small groups within seconds after hitting the ground. It wasn’t the glamorous, shoot from the hip, Hollywood portrayal of combat but a methodical and purposeful clearing action. The legionnaires directed their fire in mutual support, rapidly reloading, and always moving forward.

Lane’s voice came over the radio. “Two minutes out. Got you in sight.”

“You’re cleared to drop,” Allston radioed. “Get as close to Williams as you can.”

“I’ve got a bright flash from the ground,” Lane replied.

“That’s your target,” Allston told him. He was well clear of the Janjaweed and orbited to the north as Lane’s C-130 ran in, also at 600 feet and 120 knots.

G.G. watched Lane’s C-130 as it over flew Williams’ position. “He’s not dropping.” A parachute popped open in the Hercules’ wake. “No! No!” the navigator shouted as more parachutes deployed. “They blew it,” he moaned. “They’re gonna land a half-mile long.”

Unaware the Americans were uncovered, Vermullen and his legionnaires drove the Janjaweed out of the brush. “Vermullen’s driving ‘em towards Williams,” Marci warned.

“Got ‘em,” Allston replied. His eyes narrowed as he calculated the distances. The Janjaweed would overrun the survivors before Mercier’s legionnaires could reach them. “We’re landing,” he announced. “Jumpmaster, I need a shooter on the flight deck and two on the ramp.”

“I’ll rig the ladder.” G.G said. He disappeared onto the cargo deck as the French jumpmaster climbed onto the flight deck with his snub-nosed FAMAS G2 assault rifle and two bandoliers of ammunition. G.G. shoved a ladder onto the flight deck and worked to erect it as Allston turned short final, the aircraft’s nose high in the air. G.G. reached up and opened the top hatch.

“Hold on!” Allston ordered. He planted the C-130 hard and reversed the props with the aircraft’s nose still in the air. A cloud of dust roared out in front of them as Allston stomped on the brakes. They were still moving when he turned the nose toward the approaching Janjaweed. “Shooter in the top hatch.” The jumpmaster scrambled up the ladder and braced himself as he fired in short bursts. “Cease fire!” Allston shouted as he played the throttles and brakes to pivot the aircraft around. The C-130’s tail swung towards the Janjaweed and the shooters on the ramp under the tail opened up as Vermullen’s legionnaires reached the brush line and joined in, catching the Janjaweed in a deadly crossfire.