by Harold Coyle
Stevin nodded, dropped the tent flap, and disappeared. Hurtubise was angry: with his deputy, with the workers, with the equipment, with himself. Just thirty more minutes and we would have been away from here!
He stepped outside, seeing the gray hues of dawn stretching across the barren landscape. He stopped for a moment, reviewing his dispositions. Full alert: sixteen men awake and fully armed. Five at the front gate with Etienne, four more a hundred meters back to provide fire support. Three positioned at the north gate to defend the exit, two each with the trucks. He would have liked another section at the exit gate, since the Americans were likely to attempt an end-around, but he needed most of his force to slow the attack along the main axis of advance.
Hurtubise took the spare Range Rover, cranked the engine, and coaxed its 2.4 liters into life. With his rifle and kit bag beside him, he stepped on the gas and sped for the quarry.
* * *
In the back of the lead truck, two SSI operators accompanied Bernard Langevin and eight Chadian troopers. As the Renault sped toward the mine, Langevin looked at his nearest companion, the man known as Breezy. He had his eyes shut as he seemed to inhale deeply, hold his breath, and expel it.
On the opposite side, Bosco caught the scientist’s eye. He gave a knowing grin.
“What’s he doing?” Langevin asked.
“It’s called the count of four. You inhale on a four count, hold it for four, and exhale for four. Do that four times. It’s, like, a relaxation technique.”
“Does it work?”
Breezy opened his eyes. “It’s my pre-combat routine, Doc. Lowers the heart rate, gets more oxygen into the blood.” He regarded the nuclear specialist. “Give it a try.”
“Well, I…”
Lee opened the flap separating the bed from the cab. “Line of departure, gentlemen! Lock and load!”
* * *
Terry Keegan knew something would go wrong; it always did. He did not expect it to be communications.
Inbound at two hundred feet, he banked his Alouette to clear the uranium mine, lest the operators assume he was a threat. He intended to hover nearby while the truck convoy confronted the gate guards, leaving Eddie Marsh to handle contingencies. But moments before the first truck squealed to a stop, Keegan lost contact with Marsh.
Beside him, Charles Haegelin played with the unfamiliar radio set. After twisting the knobs for volume and gain without avail, he shifted frequencies — still no success. “It is no good,” the French Canadian mechanic conceded. “I can do nothing in the air. Maybe if we landed…”
Keegan shook his head. “We can’t do that, Charles. Not until I know how things are going down there. Otherwise our troopies might be out of position if we need ‘em.” He nodded over his shoulder, indicating the five Chadian soldiers behind him.
“Can you still talk to Major Lee?”
“Yeah. I ran a comm check on the way in. But I can’t talk directly to Eddie.” He thought for a moment. “If I have to, I could relay a message to him via the ground team.”
Haegelin shrugged. “Well, he knows what to do.”
* * *
Paul Deladier heard the warning shouts, saw Hurtubise’s Range Rover speeding toward him, and discerned helicopters in the distance. He did not need to await more information. He nudged his driver, a former caballero legionario of the Spanish Legion. “Allez, allez!” The mercenary, who had grown up in the Pyrenees, was fluent in French and Spanish. He put the Mercedes-Benz Axor in gear and, pulling a semi van, headed for the northern exit.
* * *
Etienne Stevin’s experienced eyes were bleary but they took in the rapidly developing situation. Three trucks deployed within fifty meters of the entrance, disgorging two trucks worth of troops. He realized that whoever commanded the operation was an experienced soldier.
Three men advanced toward the gate: a white and two Africans. Two carried rifles, muzzles down; the white man bore no visible weapons.
“Bonjour,” the apparent leader greeted Stevin. The man introduced himself as Dr. Bernard Langevin, producing identification from the International Atomic Energy Agency. “We wish to inspect this facility,” the American said. He added something about authority of the United Nations and the Chadian government, indicating his nearest black colleague who in fact was Sergeant Major Bawoyeu. However, the introductions were drowned out by the passage of a second helicopter orbiting overhead.
From the center truck Steve Lee looked up, growing impatient with the flier’s antics. He approved Keegan’s cautious approach, hovering menacingly in the distance, but Eddie Marsh seemed to be pushing his orders. Lee keyed his microphone. “Beanie Two from Grunt One.”
“Beanie here. Go.” Marsh’s voice was light and chipper on the UHF frequency.
“Back off, Beanie. You’re bothering the locals. Over.”
Marsh responded with two mike clicks, lowered his nose, and moved off to the northeast.
Langevin took advantage of the momentary interruption while Stevin watched the Alouette depart. Though not trained as an operator, the scientist recognized a well-planned position: two machine guns placed for mutual support with riflemen on the flanks. But he was certain that the defenders had not shown him everything.
Addressing the senior guard again, Langevin repeated his demand. “We are here to inspect the facility. May we enter?”
The Belgian mercenary remained calm. “I have no objection, monsieur, but I shall have to check with my commandant. Please wait.”
Langevin watched the burly guard walk past the gate, taking his time en route wherever he was going. “He’s stalling,” the American said to Bawoyeu.
As if in confirmation, Marsh was back on the radio. “Be advised, there’s a truck and trailer headed for the north gate!”
Lee was monitoring the channel. “Beanie Two, are there any other vehicles?”
After a short interval, Marsh replied, “Affirmative. Another truck and semi and a couple of SUVs. One is headed for the parked truck. Over.”
Lee visualized the developing situation. Time mattered now more than ever. “Beanie Two, keep an eye on the mover. Break break. Grunt Four, copy?”
Chris Nissen’s baritone snapped back. “Copy, One. We’re in position, over.”
“Ah, roger, Four. Do what you have to but stop that truck.”
“Affirm. Out.”
Satisfied that Nissen’s squad would handle the northern roadblock, Lee set down the microphone on his command set. Then he checked his portable radio and leaned out of the door. He made a circular motion with one hand, signaling the deployed squads to advance on the perimeter. J. J. Johnson caught the sign and directed the maneuver element. With that, Lee nodded for his driver to head for the gate.
Above and behind him, Breezy pushed the canvas tarp aside to deploy a bipoded HK-21, leaning into the 7.62 machine gun and trying to steady it on the roof of the cab.
* * *
Marcel Hurtubise grasped the emerging confrontation. Ruefully he sped past the second Mercedes, not quite half full of yellow cake. Briefly he considered driving the truck himself to salvage more of his end user’s product, but he dismissed the option. Paul will need some support. He braked to a stop, urged two of his reaction squad to jump in, and resumed his northward dash.
* * *
Etienne Stevin labored under many human frailties. Some would say most of them, but he was nothing if not loyal. That sense of camaraderie mixed with the cognac he had consumed now conspired to produce a mental binary. Deep in the recesses of his memory he heard the measured strains of “Le Boudin” and grasped the essential rightness of it all. Outnumbered, beset by desert enemies beyond the gate, surrounded by his fellows: this was how a Legionnaire died!
Sensing the helicopter threat to Deladier’s truck, the Belgian tossed aside a tarp and picked up a Mistral missile launcher. It was one of three stashed within the compound.
Stevin had not fired a man-portable SAM in several years, but he knew the drill.
>
Hefting its nineteen kilograms, Steven settled the loaded launcher on his right shoulder. He tracked the Alouette in his sight, pressed the enabling switch to activate the homer, and held his breath. In seconds he was rewarded with the light confirming that the missile’s seeker head was tracking a heat source within range.
He pressed the firing button.
Inside the launcher, the booster motor ejected the missile with an impulse lasting less than half a second. Fifty feet downrange, the sustainer motor burst into life, accelerating with eye-watering velocity. At more than twice the speed of sound, the Mistral ate up the distance to the target.
Stevin knew that the Mistral was rated effective against helicopters at four kilometers. His target was barely half that far.
Three kilometers up the road, Chris Nissen saw the missile’s telltale wake. He pressed his mike button, hardly knowing what to say.
Had Nissen or Stevin or anyone else had a heartbeat to ponder the situation, they might have been struck by the irony. A French missile— named for a cold north wind that blows along the Riviera — dashed with demonic obsession toward a French helicopter, fired by a Belgian employed by a French firm. But most missiles are like bullets, conceived without a conscience, pursuing their embedded purposes depending upon the preference of their human masters.
Since Stevin’s Mistral lacked a logic board, and Marsh’s Alouette lacked IFF or even chaff or flares, the result of the firing was nearly certain. Stevin did not recall the precise figure, but he had read that Mistrals could be ninety percent effective when launched within parameters.
Before Nissen could shout a warning, the missile exploded. Its laser proximity fuse sensed the overtake on the heat source and detonated the three-kilogram warhead.
Scores of tungsten balls erupted outward from the blast pattern, ruining the helo’s airframe. The boom was nearly severed from the cabin, sending the Alouette spiraling crazily to earth.
47
BORKOU-ENNEDI-TIBESTI PREFECTURE
“Look at that!”
Racing to catch Deladier’s semi truck and trailer, Hurtubise shot a glance to his right. Following his companion’s extended trigger finger, Marcel glimpsed a missile plume and a receding midair explosion in the gray Saharan sky. “Damn it to hell! I said no unnecessary shooting!” Things were turning to hash. He put his foot on the floor.
* * *
Everybody was talking at once. The air and ground radios were jammed with shouts, questions, and exclamations.
Lee sought to make sense of the babble. He knew he would have to wait a few moments for the talkers to get a grip on themselves. Bad show, he told himself. No radio discipline.
Terry Keegan was the first to break through the noise. He dispensed with call signs. “Steve, Terry. Eddie’s down! Repeat, Eddie’s down. A missile got him.”
“Where’d it come from? Over.”
“Inside the perimeter. I think more to the south side.”
Looking outside his truck, Lee saw the remaining Alouette lower its nose and accelerate to the north. “Terry, Steve. Do not proceed north. Repeat, do not go north.”
“Ah… Steve, I can reach him faster than Nissen.”
“I know, Terry, I know. But we can’t risk you and the reaction force. Please stay back here ‘til we get sorted out. Over.”
The helo continued almost to the perimeter before slowing. Then Keegan executed a pedal turn and pivoted right, heading easterly. “Acknowledged, out.”
Steve Lee’s mind raced, sorting priorities and options. Likely Marsh and his Chadian troops were dead. In any case, they could not be helped just now. He keyed his mike. “Grunt Four from Grunt One, over.”
Several heartbeats later Nissen’s voice was on the air. “Grunt Four. Steve, I see it. I’m going to check for survivors.”
“Ah, negative, Chris. Not yet. We need to keep the back door closed. There’s a truck and trailer headed your way.”
More seconds ticked away before Nissen responded. “Steve, I’m already on the way to the crash, about two klicks away. It’s starting to burn and we might save some guys…” His voice trailed off before the carrier wave went dead. Lee could read Nissen’s mind. He’s a good NCO, looking out for his fellow soldiers but the mission should come first.
“Okay, Chris. Keep me informed.
“Break-break. Beanie One, copy?”
“One is up.” Keegan’s voice rasped over the air-ground freq; eager, alert. Maybe a little tense.
“Terry, I need you to back up Grunt Four. He’s headed for the crash but we have to intercept the truck. Do an end-around to cut him off. Put your team on the road far enough ahead so you’re out of the SAM envelope. I’ll send our reserve force ASAP. Copy?”
“Will do, Steve.” Lee heard the Alouette’s Artouste 3 engine spool up as Keegan flexed his left wrist on the collective. The helo descended to about twenty feet above the ground and skirted the mine perimeter, low and fast.
Lee was back working the radio. “Grunt One to Grunt Five.”
Foyte’s gravelly voice was a welcome sound. “Five here, Boss.”
“Gunny, bring your guys up here right now. I’m sending one of my guys to block the northern exit while Chris is checking the shootdown.”
“On the way, Major. Ah, who’s down? Over.”
Lee shook his head in disgust. All that screaming on the radio. Foyte doesn’t know what’s happened. “Ah, Marsh took a missile, Gunny. That’s all we know right now.”
“Roger.” Foyte, the old pro, would adjust as necessary.
“Grunt One to Two, over.”
“Two here, go.” Wallender came back promptly, crisply.
“Josh, take your truck around to the west and block the road a klick or so north of the far exit. Stop anybody coming out, any way you can.”
“Affirm.” The word was barely out before Wallender’s truck moved off the scraped road onto the hard-packed earth, headed for the left side of the perimeter.
Lee turned back to his immediate problem: two trucks facing a prepared defense. Parked in the open, no more than fifty meters from the fence, they offered tempting targets to the automatic weapons just inside the wire. He turned to Bosco and Breezy in the bed behind him. “The fact they haven’t fired at us tells me the missile shot might be unauthorized. Whatever happens inside the mine is secondary right now so I’m not going to force the issue. But we’re not going head to head against two belt-fed weapons. We’ll move to the southwest corner where the eastern MG can’t engage us.”
Breezy shifted his HK. “Gotcha, Boss.”
Langevin was back in the cab, a querulous look on his face. “Steve, do you want me to see if I can talk to them? Like you said, they haven’t shot at us. Maybe they’ll stand down and let us in.”
“Negative, Bernie. Not now. I need to know their intentions before we stick our necks in there.”
* * *
Chris Nissen’s truck lurched to a stop thirty meters from the wrecked Alouette. He deployed three of his Chadians between the crash site and the northern road, then led the others toward the helo. With a professional eye, he noted that the French designed a damn good machine. The fuel cell had survived the impact, though hydraulic fluid and seeping kerosene were spreading liquid flames across the area.
A Chadian brought a fire extinguisher from the truck. “Get in there,” Nissen directed the man to the largest fire. “Hose that down. We gotta get them out!”
Peering into the smoke and flames, Nissen sought any sign of movement. He could not see through the smoke-stained glass.
It was taking too long.
Nissen dashed back to the truck, seized an ax from the toolbox, and raced to the helo again. Shoulda thought of this before. He ignored the noxious fumes from the smoke and stepped uncomfortably close to the fire. With a gloved hand he grasped the hatch and pulled the handle. The door opened less than two inches. Nissen realized that the airframe had buckled, holding the door closed.
Behind him and
on either side, men were shoveling dirt onto the flames or scooping rocky earth with bare hands. Nissen was a large, well-built man, and his powerful, overhand blows took effect. He knocked out the Plexiglas window, then began hacking away aluminum around the door latch. He was making progress when the wind shifted, blowing even more smoke at him. He turned his head, retching in the thick, cloying fumes, and stepped back.
Someone seized the ax from him and resumed cutting. It was Corporal Nassour Yodoyman: smaller and lighter than the American, but equally committed. He has friends in there, Nissen realized. Like me.
Nissen heard shouting behind him. He turned to see the three guards waving and gesturing. Moments later a Mercedes truck hauling a semi trailer raced past, headed north.
* * *
Etienne Stevin earnestly wished for a radio. Things had happened so quickly that he had no time to consult with Hurtubise. Actually, “consult” was an exaggeration. Stevin was a capable soldier but he was no leader. Given a task, he inevitably carried it out. But now, thrown onto his own resources, he dipped into his command psyche and came up empty.
A former Legionnaire ran up to Stevin, clearly upset at the unexpected events. “My God, what happened, Etienne? Who fired that rocket?”
Stevin glared at the inquisitor, who had asked a rational series of questions. “There’s no time for that, you hybride.” He shoved the man with both hands. “Get back to your position!”
Emile Giroud was younger than the Belgian, less experienced but lacking awe for most of his elders. He ignored the order and pointed to the southeast. “The Americans, Etienne! They’re still out there. The men want to know…”
“I said get back! Right now!”
The two mercenaries locked eyes, both men’s faces flushed with anger and tension. Stevin broke the deadlock by invoking Hurtubise’s name. “Marcel said we hold until the trucks are gone. And that’s what we do!”
“Are you blind? Look around you, Etienne! Look around! Deladier left in the first truck and Marcel followed him in the jeep. There’s nobody to drive the second truck, and it isn’t even fully loaded!”
