The Peacemakers (51 page)

Beck parked the Panhard near a hardened defensive firing position at the center of the camp that was linked by a field telephone line to the Legion’s command post. The DFP was at the apex of a big V formed by two lines of DFPs that opened to the south, the expected direction of the attack. The four firing positions that made up each arm of the V created a huge funnel with overlapping fields of fire. The plan was to channel the Janjaweed when they entered the V into a narrow lane as they passed through the apex and charged into a kill box flanked by Claymore anti-personnel mines. An artillery round drove Vermullen and Beck into the sandbagged foxhole where three legionnaires were hunkered down. Three more artillery rounds walked harmlessly across the camp. “The softening up begins,” Vermullen told the men. “Hans, check the men on the left. Encourage them to shoot straight ahead and remember where their comrades are.” It was Vermullen’s way of telling his legionnaires that he was with them. The old private waited for a pause in the shelling. He bolted out of the DFP and ran into the night.

Vermullen scanned the area with his NVGs. “Waiting is always the hardest part,” he told the three men. More artillery shells walked through the camp. Beck was back. The men on the left were ready and relieved that Vermullen was there. “Now tell the ones on the right. Beck grunted an obscenity in German and again disappeared into the night. “Stalwart fellow, Private Beck,” Vermullen said. The three legionnaires laughed. The artillery shelling stopped. “Now the attack begins,” Vermullen predicted. Beck exploited the lull and piled into the foxhole. The right side was ready.

Sergeant Thomas, one of Vermullen’s veterans, heard it first. “Bloody trucks.”

“And I promised you Janjaweed,” Vermullen replied. “So much the better, is it not? Much more sporting.”

“It’s not bloody Eton,” Thomas replied, his Cockney accent even more pronounced than usual.

Nine trucks charged out of the brush and accelerated straight for the camp. A machine gun was mounted over the cab of each truck and the gunners swept the field in front of them with heavy fire. Sporadic gunfire from the DFPs cut into the trucks, forcing them straight-ahead and deeper into the funnel. A truck was hit and rolled to a stop. The drivers bailed out as the legionnaires unlimbered their assault rifles and shredded the soldiers. The other trucks veered to the right only to encounter concentrated gunfire from the DFPs on that side. A truck exploded as the others cut back. Behind them, a large group of Janjaweed broke from cover at a full gallop and charged after the trucks, heading into the V.

The legionnaires came to their feet and fired, laying down concentrated fire at the oncoming trucks. Another truck fireballed and rolled. The six remaining trucks sped by Vermullen’s DFP and into the deserted camp. Vermullen didn’t hesitate. He reached for a small green plastic detonator and flipped open the guard on top. He mashed the trigger. The line of Claymore mines behind the DFP erupted, each sending a cloud of over 700 steel balls into the trucks, ripping and shredding the men and trucks. The carnage was absolute.

“Those were meant for the bloody Janjaweed!” Thomas shouted.

Vermullen cranked the phone and called his command post. He ordered Mercier to send Bravo Company, half of his reserve, to the refugee camp to block access to the mission compound. “I estimate over 500 Janjaweed are in the camp,” he told Mercier.

“Please save some for us,” Mercier replied.

Allston stayed out of the way as Mercier ordered forty legionnaires to the refugee camp. No sooner had they left than all four lines to the listening posts along the river lit up. Mercier listened, his face grim. “Armored vehicles and APCs are fording the river,” he told the men in the bunker. “This is more than a reconnaissance in force.” He called Captain Bouchard over and quickly identified which DFPs on Charlie Ring to man. “Take every man you can find and hold until we can disengage from the refugee camp and reinforce you,” he told the young captain.

Bouchard actually smiled. “That won’t be necessary.”

“That is very fortunate,” Mercier shot back. Bouchard snapped an open-handed salute and ran from the bunker.

“Was the attack on the refugee camp a diversion?” Allston asked.

“Oh, yes. It was a classic maneuver, very well executed. But as you Americans say, we honored the threat.” He thought for a moment. “Sacrificing the Janjaweed could have been a mistake.”

A teen-age boy burst into the bunker. He was winded from a long run and his eyes were wide with fear. He babbled in Dinka, which neither man understood. Allston grabbed the phone to Outback, the security police bunker. “We need a translator,” he told Malone. “Send Williams here ASAP.” Now they had to wait.

Vermullen emptied his FAMAS at the Janjaweed thundering past his DFP. He jammed a fresh clip into the over-heated weapon and fired another burst. Beside him, Beck lobbed round after round of grenades at the horsemen as they swept by. The ground was littered with bodies and horses but still the Janjaweed kept coming. The green light on the telephone line blinked. In the chaos, Vermullen answered, still firing short bursts as he listened. “Excellent,” he shouted, breaking the connection. “Bravo Company is through the minefield and blocking them,” he told the four legionnaires. “We have them in the bag. Do we have any more Claymores?”

“Ten,” Thomas, the Cockney sergeant, answered.

“Good. You take four and give one to each DFP on the left. Tell them to position them to face south, away from our DFPs, and to only fire at the Janjaweed after they have passed by. Hans, take four and do the same on the right. Go!” Thomas handed Beck four small canvas bags. The English Legionnaire slung four over his shoulder and followed Beck. A storm of small-arms fire echoed from the side of the camp nearest the mission. “I believe the Janjaweed have met Bravo Company,” Vermullen said to the two legionnaires still in the bunker. “Place the last two Claymores there and there, facing each other.” He pointed to where he wanted the Claymores, one on each side of the kill box. “Go.” He didn’t have time to explain and the legionnaires reacted instinctively, leaving him alone in the DFP. He cranked the phone to the command post but it was dead, the line cut.

Beck and Thomas were back in time to see their comrades rig the last two Claymores. They snapped open the short legs that held each mine upright and placed the side with the Chinese markings facing outward. Each weighed less than four pounds and were extremely effective killing machines out to fifty yards. The legionnaires attached the detonator wires and ran for the DFP. “Brilliant,” Thomas muttered. “The Janjaweed are shitting their knickers and only know one way out, right through here. Those two Claymores are for traffic control and the others will collect the exit toll.” The pounding of hooves confirmed his guess.