The Peacemakers (33 page)

Soldiers ran from the two barracks inside the compound and quickly formed up. Shouted commands carried into the night as the soldiers mounted their trucks. Within minutes, the convoy rumbled out the gate and towards the airfield and town. The French captain broke radio silence and warned his compatriots that company was coming their way. Again, he studied the compound. It looked deserted and he conferred with his sergeant. “Apparently, they left one guard at the gate. We need to get in without him raising the alarm.” The sergeant had an idea. He motioned for his men to form up on the road and quick marched them straight for the compound, hoping the guard would think they were returning soldiers. He hoped right. They were ten feet away when the gate guard realized they were not Sudanese and promptly surrendered. Bouchard ordered four of his men to guard the gate while he led the rest on a sweep through the compound. Within minutes, it was secured and they had reached the storage bunkers. But heavy steel doors barred their entrance. He radioed the code word indicating the compound was secure. “Verdun, repeat, Verdun.”

On the darkened flight deck, Allston tensed, waiting to hear what was happening at the airfield. It seemed like an eternity before he heard Major Mercier’s voice on the radio. “The trucks did not stop and are headed for town. Guests are welcome.”

Allston didn’t hesitate. They had momentum, and he radioed the code words that set the next phase in action. “Remember the Alamo, repeat, remember the Alamo.” The C-130s were going to land. For a moment, he wondered if Vermullen and Williams were still alive and how critical blowing the bridge was to their success. But it was too late to engage in second-guessing. The Monday morning quarterbacks at AFRICOM and the Pentagon would do that from the safety and security of their offices. He banked the C-130, reduced power, and circled down, certain that Bard Green was following him. He called for the before landing checklist, configuring the aircraft. He studied the terrain and finally found the darkened runway. It was clear for its entire length of 7000 feet. He wanted to minimize their approach time and opted for a steep approach typical of a short field landing. But this time he would not reverse the props and would roll out long to keep the noise to a minimum. He turned and came down final.

Thanks to his NVGs, he had a visual on the runway but his depth perception left a lot to be desired. His copilot called out their absolute altitude, the actual feet above the ground. They banged down. “Shut down one and four,” he told Riley as they rolled out to the far end. He turned off the runway and onto the large earthen parking area. Riley cut the inboard engines as Bard Green touched down. “Cock this puppy,” Allston told his crew as the ramp came down. The copilot called the checklist from memory and they readied the C-130 for a quick engine start and takeoff. In the rear, the two battered trucks rumbled off. Bard Green’s C-130 taxied to a halt next to Allston’s and within minutes, offloaded its two trucks. The four trucks raced for the weapons storage area, three quarters of a mile away.

Allston lifted his NVGs and checked his watch – 03:32. Two hours and thirteen minutes to sunrise. They were running out of time. Major Mercier climbed onto the flight deck, and Allston offered him a bottle of cold water that was gratefully accepted. “Any word from Colonel Vermullen?” Allston asked.

“Nothing,” the major replied.

“He should have let someone else do it,” Allston said. “He’s needed here.”

Mercier shrugged. “The Colonel trains us to act independently. Compared to what he does to us in training, this is what you American’s call a piece of cake.”

“Actually, that’s British.”

Mercier gazed into the night. “Colonel Vermullen is where he belongs, doing what he does best.”

The legionnaires at the guard shack pointed to the bunkers as they waved the four trucks into the storage area. Bouchard snapped an order and the lead truck backed up against the nearest steel door. A soldier connected a chain to the door and shouted at the driver to gun the engine. He did and let out the clutch. For a moment, it was a stalled tug-of-war. Then the truck inched ahead, its wheels spinning. Suddenly, the entire wall popped out. “That’s one way to do it,” Bouchard said. “Open up the others.” He ran down the aisle trying to make sense out of the markings on the crates. As best he could tell, each crate was labeled in Arabic and Chinese. He could read the Arabic but it didn’t make sense. “Does anyone read Chinese?”

The youngest of his men, a nineteen-year-old private, came forward and translated the markings on the crates. “These are all Claymores,” he announced. The Claymore’s were an anti-personnel mine about the size of a laptop computer. A pair of short legs extended from the bottom edge so it could be set up in the vertical and pointed at the enemy. A light infantryman could not ask for a better defensive weapon.

“Load them all,” Bouchard ordered. The men worked like demons and within minutes, the first truck was loaded. They went to work on the second truck.

The teenager was back, carrying a Stinger surface-to air missile. He pointed to the second bunker. “They’re all there! In the back.”

“Show me,” Bouchard ordered. The two men hurried down the darkened aisles. The teenager stopped and handed him a Shipon. They had found what they came for. The captain didn’t hesitate and ordered his men to load the Stingers and Shipons. Within minutes, the four trucks were loaded and headed for the airport. Bouchard searched the last bunker and struck gold. There were over 400 wooden crates of landmines. He ran outside and keyed his radio. “Send the trucks back.”

SIXTEEN

Bentiu

W
illiams sawed at the steering wheel cutting between frantic people fleeing the fire as they sped down the main road leading to the first bridge they had to cross. Twice, they had to pull over to let trucks carrying soldiers careen past, heading towards the fire. Then they were moving again. “They could use a fire department,” Williams said.

Vermullen shook his head. “In this part of Africa, the firemen would steal the trucks.” They sped across the first bridge and were less than a hundred yards from the second one, their original objective, when Williams stomped on the brakes. A makeshift roadblock barred their way. The truck skidded to a stop, and Williams shifted into reverse. Vermullen’s huge left hand clamped down on Williams right hand and shifted the transmission to neutral. “No. We’re too close. They’re SA.”

“Where the fuck did they come from?” Williams blurted.

Vermullen ignored the outburst. “I count one on your side, two on mine.”

“I count the same,” Williams answered.

“Drive forward and stop a few feet short. Take your man out when I tell you.”

“Got it,” Williams said as he let out the clutch and moved forward. He drew his Colt .45 and thumbed off the safety. He switched it to his left hand and lowered the weapon to hide it between his seat and the door. He stopped the pickup short of the roadblock and waited for the soldiers’ reaction. They held their AK-47s at the ready and walked to the truck. The soldier on Williams’ side shone a light into Williams face and laughed at the short American. “A dwarf is driving,” he called in Arabic. He dropped his AK-47 and let it swing from its strap. He pointed at Williams. “Get out,”

“I don’t speak Arabic,” Williams said in Nuer.

“He wants us to get out,” Vermullen replied in the same language. He got out and faced the two soldiers on his side, blocking the first soldier’s view. In the dark, the two men didn’t see the knife in Vermullen’s right hand held low next to his thigh. One of the soldiers lowered his AK-47 and stepped forward to search Vermullen. The Frenchman held up his left hand and let him see his Rolex watch on his wrist. The soldier reached for it. “Now,” Vermullen ordered. Williams swung his door open, raised his Colt, and fired without aiming. It was a wild shot but so close in that it hit the soldier in his right side. The striking power of a .45 at close range is deadly and the man spun around and fell backward.

At the same time, Vermullen grabbed the soldier stealing his watch by the wrist and twisted, forcing the man around and in front of him. The Frenchman’s right hand flashed, rattlesnake quick, as he cut the soldier’s throat. In the same fluid motion, Vermullen pushed the dying soldier into his comrade, spoiling his aim. Williams scrambled around the front of the truck and fired three rapid rounds at the third soldier. The first round grazed the soldier’s right shoulder, throwing him back. The last two rounds missed. “Aim,” Vermullen ordered. Williams did and squeezed off another round. It hit the wounded man in the jaw, blowing it away.