The Peacemakers (52 page)

Williams kept telling the teenager to talk more slowly. “He’s a volunteer manning a listening post,” Williams explained. He spoke to the boy and pointed to the chart at the same time. The teenager jabbed a finger at the chart and spoke rapidly. “He says an armored car and ten soldiers are stopped here.”

Where did they come from? Allston wondered. “Okay, who have we got left?”“Only your police,” Mercier replied. He cranked the telephone and called Malone. He quickly recapped the situation and listened for a moment. Then, “The boy is here and he can show you. We have a Shipon.” He broke the connection. “Malone will be here shortly.”

Malone and Sergeant Lee Ford made it in two minutes. “We’re it,” he told Allston. “I think you remember Sergeant Ford. He speaks Dinka and is wide awake now. I’ve got one guy left manning Outback. Everyone else is posted out with orders to fall back on the hospital. So how do you use a Shipon?”

Mercier opened a case and handed Malone the shoulder-held anti-tank missile. “It is good for 600 meters, but a shame to waste it on an armored car.” He went through the aiming and firing sequence. “Beware of the blowback. It can kill you.”

Malone gestured at the Dinka teenager. “Tell him to show us the way.” Airman Ford spoke a few words in Dinka and the boy nodded. “Let’s go,” Malone said. The Dinka understood and led the way out.

The horsemen came directly at Vermullen’s DFP, retracing their path through the camp in a desperate attempt to escape. Vermullen waited, trying to determine where they were the most concentrated. Deciding they were massed to his right, he triggered the Claymore on his left. The mine exploded, sending a hail of death into the leading Janjaweed, cutting and tearing into the horses and their riders. Instinctively, the survivors veered away, into their more densely packed comrades on Vermullen’s right. Again, he waited. At the last critical moment, he triggered the Claymore on his right. But now the carnage was more brutal as the Claymore’s fourteen ounces of C-4 explosive sent a cloud of steel fragments into the densely packed Janjaweed. The unhurt men and horses immediately behind piled into their downed comrades, adding to the chaos as the rest split around the DFP, racing for safety. The five legionnaires in the DFP came to their feet, firing into the retreating horsemen. They fired in short bursts, emptying their magazines and quickly reloading. Still the horsemen surged past, swinging wider and wider to avoid the slaughtered horses and riders.

The last surge of Janjaweed raced past the DFP, the riders frantically urging their horses on and not bothering to return fire. The last Claymores started to detonate as the legionnaires timed their detonations to max effect, cutting into the backside of the retreating horses and men. The sound of gunfire and running horses gave way to the bellow of baying horses and screaming men dying in the night.

Vermullen reloaded, careful not to touch the overheated barrel of his rifle. “An ugly business,” he muttered. “Hans, fire a flare.” Beck did as ordered and a single flare arced over the killing ground, illuminating the carnage around them.

“What now?” Thomas asked.

“We wait,” Vermullen answered. “If I am right, Bravo Company will be needed elsewhere shortly, and is probably withdrawing back into the mission.” A few minutes later, another green flare arced over the killing field, this one from Bravo Company. They were withdrawing into the mission. “Now you must mop up,” Vermullen said. He climbed out of the DFP and ran for the Panhard with Beck in hot pursuit.

“Bloody hell, what are we supposed to do with the survivors?” Thomas yelled.

“What survivors?” Beck shouted back.

Vermullen was surprised to find the utility truck undamaged. Beck climbed in behind the steering wheel while Vermullen took one last look around. Gunshots echoed over them as the legionnaires went about their work. Vermullen snorted and climbed in. “The command post,” he said. Beck slipped the truck into gear as more gunfire split the night air.

Malone ran through the night, hard pressed to follow the nimble Dinka. Ford, the other security cop, was right behind him, breathing hard. The teenager stopped and knelt, motioning them to do the same. Malone almost ran into him and came down beside him. Ford piled into him. “Sorry,” he said, gasping for air. The Dinka pointed into the night. Ford’s night vision was superb and he looked to the side, getting the maximum definition. “Sweet Mother of God,” he whispered. “There’s two of ‘em, not one.”

Malone turned on his NVGs and waited for the image to stabilize. Slowly, the greenish image came into focus. Two, eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers were parked beside the road with their side hatches and gun ports open. A machine gun was mounted in a turret aft of the driver’s compartment. “They look like BTR-80s,” Malone said in a low voice. He could feel the Dinka beside him shake from fear. “Tell him to take off,” he said to Ford. The cop whispered a few words and the teenager disappeared into the night, running for safety. “When in doubt, run like hell,” Malone muttered. Far to their right, towards the river, they heard machine gun fire followed by two sharp explosions. An artillery shell screamed as it cut an arc overhead, striking the mission. “Sounds like things are heating up,” Malone allowed. The diesel engine of the lead BTR rumbled to life and most of the soldiers climbed aboard. The second BTR cranked to life.

“There’s nothing between them and the mission,” Ford said.

“Except the mine field,” Malone said, “and us.” More explosions from the river echoed over them. “That’s different,” he said. “How many rounds we got for the Shipon?”

“Just the one in the launcher,” Ford told him.

The first BTR started to move, coming down the road straight at them. Malone fumbled with the missile, trying to recall Mercier’s hurried instructions. “Give it to me,” Ford said, taking the Shipon away from him.

“Okay, take him out. Try to block the road.”

“Got it,” Ford said. He rolled to his knees and lifted the Shipon to his right shoulder. He dropped the monopod under the muzzle to support its weight and stabilize it. His left hand grasped the monopod while his right hand fingered the fire control lever. He laid his right cheek against the tube and sighted through the eyepiece. Now he waited. He almost dropped the Shipon when the Dinka teenager skidded to his knees beside him. Two more teenagers were right behind him. They were each carrying a FAMAS and one had a bag of hand grenades, which he quickly passed out.

“Welcome back,” Malone said, doubting they understood a word he said. The lead BTR was moving faster now, with the second close behind. A few soldiers straggled along behind. Ford laid the crosshairs over the driver’s window and rotated the fire control lever to the first detent. “Mercier said it takes less than a second for the sight to resolve and set the aim point,” Malone offered. Ford counted slowly to three and rotated the lever full down. The whoosh of the missile and plume of flame shooting out the back surprised them all. The missile tracked true and Malone was certain the soldiers had seen the fiery blowback. “Run!” he shouted. He sprang to his feet and ran to his right, angling away from the BTRs. Ford dropped the launcher tube and followed as the missile hit the lead BTR less than an inch from its aim point. The tandem-shaped charge punched through the relatively thin-skinned armored personnel carrier, allowing the second stage to detonate inside. It was a massive case of overkill and the second explosion shredded the men inside and blew the engine out the back, into the second oncoming BTR.

Malone ran harder with Ford and the three boys still behind. The machine gun on the second BTR raked the night, kicking up dirt around them. One of the boys stumbled as a burst of gunfire cut the air above him. Then he was up and running again. The BTR pushed around the burning hulk as the sharp crack of an M-16 echoed. Ford had fallen into a prone firing position and was trying to draw the gunner’s attention so the others could flank the BTR. The gas tank on the burning personnel carrier exploded, coating the moving BTR with burning diesel fuel. It still came on, its machine gun firing wildly as flames washed over its carapace. One of the Dinka teenagers dropped his FAMAS and ran towards the BTR, pulling the pin of a grenade as he zigzagged.

A gun port on the left side of the BTR flipped open and the muzzle of an AK-47 poked out. The shooter mashed the trigger and emptied the magazine in a vain attempt to cut down the running Dinka. He missed and the Dinka reached the BTR. He tossed the grenade through the open gun port and fell to the ground. Nothing happened and Malone swore loudly. The side hatch of the BTR started to open as the grenade exploded, ripping into the men inside and blowing the hatch down. A secondary explosion rocked the BTR. “Son of a bitch,” Malone breathed. In the heat of battle, his sense of time had slowed down.