The Peacemakers (58 page)

“She’s flying the next bird,” the pilot replied, “with Bard Green. We’re taking gunfire on final and the jamming is getting pretty damn bad. We could sure use radios to

warn the next Herk.” Williams was still standing in front of the Hercules and gave the pilot a thumbs up. Another 145 refugees were on board. Allston clambered off the Hercules and ran clear as the pilot released the brakes and taxied out.

The rattletrap Land Rover drove up and Jill motioned to him from the driver’s seat. “The listening posts are reporting tanks in the water. Idi is on Charlie Ring running the show from there.”

“Are we still in contact?” Allston asked.

Jill shook her head. “Jamming and the landlines are cut. We’ll probably be in mortar range in a few minutes.” She was very worried. “Colonel, this could be a final effort.”

“If it’s a do-or-die, they’ll be doing the dying. Williams! Get your body over here.” He ran for the shed where the Porter was parked.

Williams moved slowly, unable to catch Allston. “Get in,” Jill ordered. He did and she drove after Allston.

“I’m not going to like this,” Williams complained.

Allston was pushing the doors of the shed back when they arrived. He checked the Porter’s cargo compartment as Williams crawled out of the Land Rover. “We need Shipons and weapons,” Allston yelled. Jill gunned the Land Rover and headed for the mission. The rumble of explosions echoed in the distance and the two men hit the ground when the Paladin’s cannon roared. Before they could move, another mortar round hit the ramp. The Paladin fired again and it was quiet.

“Damn,” Williams cursed. “Now we gotta fill in the hole.”

Allston was worried. “Right where the C-130 stopped. They’ve got the range.” They pushed the Porter out of the shed and Allston did a careful preflight, checking if there was any major damage. Other than numerous bullet holes in the left side of the fuselage, the aircraft was undamaged. He turned to Williams. “You good to go?”

“Boss, do I really have a choice?”

“Sure you do. I can always get Major Sharp.”

“Yeah, right,” Williams groused. “She’s back.”

The Land Rover slammed to halt beside the Porter and Jill motioned to the Shipon and Stinger in the rear seat. “You’ve got two rounds for each one. That’s all I could find,” she told them. She crawled out and handed an M-16 and two clips to Allston.

“Well done,” Allston said. He handed her the flare pistol from the Porter. “A Herk is inbound. Stay here and don’t let it land. They’ve got a spotter directing mortar fire on the air patch. We gotta take out the bastard to get the field open.” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and hit the starter button, spinning the turboprop to life.

Vermullen peered into the early morning dark, trying to make sense out of the attack coming at him. Judging by the gunfire and mortar rounds the Sudanese were throwing at them, they were softening up the left for a flanking maneuver. Jamming had made the Legion’s tactical radios useless but he knew where his men were posted and could rely on them to operate independently. He mentally calculated how long the sixty legionnaires he had deployed on that section of Charlie Ring could hold out. He had trained them and knew what they could do, and Claymores and Shipons did make a big difference. The Sudanese might break through, if they were willing to pay the price. Beck piled into the DFP beside him, and loudly sucked air, catching his breath.

“Getting too old for this, Hans?” The private didn’t answer. “Everyone is briefed?” A nod answered him. Each fire team had been briefed on how Vermullen expected the attack to develop. He was certain the Sudanese would concentrate their attack on one part of Charlie Ring rather than a broad frontal assault. His plan called for that section to pull back and let the Sudanese move forward to present a flank to the other legionnaires.

Beck removed his NVGs and peered into the early-morning dark as the distinctive mix of diesel engines and clanking tracks grew louder. “Tanks,” he said. “Coming at us.” A missile from their right streaked through the night and a tank exploded. Another tank pushed around it, its turret-mounted machine gun firing. The tank commander’s head was barely visible above the open hatch as he directed the driver. Vermullen raised his FAMAS and carefully aimed. He estimated the range at 125 meters and squeezed off a single shot. The top of the tank commander’s head disappeared in a red haze. “Nice shot, Colonel,” Beck said.

A red flare arced over them from their left. The Sudanese had broken through that side of Charlie Ring. Beck centered the Shipon’s crosshairs on the driver’s side of the tank charging at them and fired.

The Porter hugged the ground and popped over a low stand of trees. “It’s getting pretty rough back here,” Williams shouted as he held on for dear life in the open cargo compartment. Bright flashes off to their left confirmed they were flying over Charlie Ring and approaching the river. “The Legion is taking a beating down there,” Williams yelled.

Allston didn’t answer and concentrated on clearing the ground rushing by fifty feet below. He jerked the Porter to the right, barely missing a tree. Now he could make out the dense green vegetation that marked the marshland bordering the White Nile. Again, he darted around a tree, using it for cover. Below him, he made out the river’s main channel. Less than a mile ahead, a long line of trucks was stopped on the road paralleling the northern side of the river. He caught a glimpse of a tall mast with the distinctive antenna arrays that marked his target. A line of tracers reached up from the road. Instinctively, he loaded the Porter with a three-
g
turn and dropped to ten feet off the deck as a line of tracers cut the air above them. “Fuckin’ ZSUs!” he shouted, venting his anger. The 23mm, four-barreled ZSU-23-4 was an old, but very deadly anti-aircraft artillery that he wanted nothing to do with. But he was out of options and had to challenge the ZSU in order to get at the jammer. He circled to the north, trying to get behind the weapon. “Lock and load!”

“Ready.” Williams was still firmly strapped to the cargo deck and aiming the Shipon out the left side.

“We’re going after a APC with a radar antenna on top and four barrels sticking out the front. You gotta be quick on this one.” Allston firewalled the throttle and turned towards the road. He had lost sight of it but knew where it was. He displaced his heading thirty degrees to the right of the ZSU. A line of tracers cut back and forth in front of him as the gunner fired wildly, hearing the Porter’s turboprop but not able to find it in the dark. Allston’s eyes followed the tracers back to the ZSU. “Ready, ready,” he shouted at Williams. “Pull!” They were less than 200 yards from the ZSU when he pulled on the stick and popped to eighty feet above the ground, enough to set up a pylon turn. He turned to the left as ZSU’s radar found them and the line of tracers swung around. Williams fired.

Allston rolled out, wings level, as he bunted the stick forward. The agile Porter hit the ground and bounced, the big tires and landing gear struts absorbing the shock. The tracers cut above them. One round grazed the top of the Porter’s vertical stabilizer, taking off the top nine inches but not exploding. The ZSU fireballed as the Shipon found its target. Allston fought for control, finally leveling off at thirty feet. He turned towards the road. Ahead, he could barely make out the tall mast sticking out above the low scrub. “Ready?” he shouted.

“Reloading,” Williams yelled. It seemed an eternity as the mast loomed larger with each passing second. “Ready!” Williams shouted just as Allston put the stick over to turn away. He jerked the stick back, snapping three
g
s in the opposite direction. Williams let out a loud “Oomph!”

“We’re engaged,” Allston shouted. This time, he half turned and half skidded the Porter around, giving Williams the angle he needed. Williams fired and the missile tracked true. Allston turned away as the jammer disintegrated in flames and smoke. The concussion rocked the Porter, sending it out of control.